


Perfect Match, Inc.

by wendywanderlust



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Arranged Marriage, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Future AU, Genetic Engineering, Genetically Engineered Beings, M/M, Replicants, Science Fiction, Smut, Touch-Starved, actually it's definite smut, but not TOO dark, kind of like the replicants in blade runner, possible smut in later chapters, slightly dark AU, you know how i said possible smut?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 57,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23748925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendywanderlust/pseuds/wendywanderlust
Summary: In a future world, it is possible to create full-grown humans in test tubes, complete with pre-uploaded knowledge, skills, and memories. With this technology banned for use in warfare, society has found another use for these creations - but only the rich can afford to order a custom-made spouse (or "Match"), and the country is wrought with controversy over the ethics of the practice.Mike, at 23 years old, is the son of a mildly powerful politician, and his father supports the Match-making industry wholeheartedly. Mike is solidly against it, but what can he do? His family has him in a choke hold. Uphold the family image, or else. Just as Mike is planning his escape, his parents tell him the great news: they signed him up to order a Match!Mike doesn't want some poor person to be created according to his every desire. It's wrong. With the help of Nancy, he hatches a plan.Will isn't sure why he seems so different from the other Matches around him. He's not supermodel gorgeous, or amazingly athletic, or sweet and easygoing like a Match should be. He's worried. Did something go wrong? Was he supposed to be better? But despite his worries, his curiosity wins out. He's anxious to meet his partner.
Relationships: Will Byers/Mike Wheeler
Comments: 79
Kudos: 270





	1. Making a Match

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking about that lab outside of Hawkins that experiments on people, and then I watched Blade Runner 2049, and then I saw a weird ASMR video about building a soulmate, and then this happened. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Quarantine, man. It makes you come up with weird shit.

Mike pushes a hand through his hair. This waiting area is too air-conditioned, and goosebumps pebble his arms. He’s surrounded by brochures, bamboo screens, white furniture, gently trickling fountains, glossy magazines, complimentary snacks, and orchids potted in marbles. The receptionist lit a stick of incense before she stepped away, assuring him that it was _completely synthetic, of course, completely harmless, no smoke residue whatsoever._ A hidden speaker is playing soft, resonant spa-like music.

He doesn’t want to do this. He never wanted to do this. He’s twenty three, forchristsake. His five year plan included withdrawing his savings, packing up his shit and hightailing it across the country to somewhere where he wouldn’t have to deal with this bullshit. He’d work some shitty job in any town in America, he’d live in any studio apartment, freelance write in his spare time. Hell, he’d be a waiter, or a repairman, or he’d work in goddamn retail, just as long as he could have his own life. No more being a pawn. No more suit jackets and uncomfortable mandatory handshakes. No more big smiles for photographers. No more putting on appearances for the press, no more falling in line for the sake of looking like a big happy family. No more playing nice with his father, or his father’s political allies, or their allies, or _their_ allies. He’d give up every cent of his parents’ money. He already graduated college, it’s too late for them to renege on tuition. They can take away the car he never really wanted anyway. They can threaten and coax and gnash their teeth. He doesn’t care. He’s had enough of this life. He’s out. 

At least, that was the plan. And he was well on his way to cutting ties, ripping himself loose from anything that might tie him down here, like an animal gnawing off its own limb to survive. He graduated college on his parents’ dime, with the English major they never approved of and the Business minor he never wanted. He’s been slowly but surely severing his financial ties to them. Paying back the loan he owed to his mother. In secret, opening his own checking and savings accounts. Doing his research. He was even starting to look into prices of moving vans. 

And now this.

It’s genius, really, on his parents’ part. They must have seen him starting to wriggle free. And what better way to firmly reaffix him to the family, while providing free positive publicity for his father’s campaign at the same time?

Mike taps the stylus on the tablet in his hands. He hasn’t even turned it on yet.

He can’t do this.

Isn’t it too early to be getting married? Although, he supposes, it’s not technically a marriage. It’s a Match.

He should have known this was coming; he doesn’t know why it blindsided him so much. Of course his father would want him to do this. Of course his father would _make_ him do this. Won’t it look so good for the family? For the campaign? Sure, crowds rally now and again to protest the business of making Matches. They yell about how it’s unethical and hold up signs with slogans such as _love isn’t synthetic!_ and _no mortal should play God!_ And if Mike wasn’t the son of the politician most vocally in favor of this business, he’d be in those crowds. He hates the idea of Matches. He’s never been comfortable with it, ever since his father’s ring of politicians started supporting the industry.

But who is he kidding? Since when has he had any kind of choice about his life? They even drove with him to the facility. Perfect Match Inc., as the gates proudly announced in curling script. Smiling and nodding and making a lot of meaningful eye contact as they handed over their credit card to front the exorbitant price. They even stuck around for the “showcase,” which was sickening enough in and of itself. The widely-smiling receptionist led them back into a show room, where mildly bored-looking Perfect Match “employees” lined up and posed at the receptionist’s prompting. ( _Of course,_ she said repeatedly, _These are only examples of the Match you could create. Your choices are infinite - tailored completely to your taste._ )

That’s the worst part about it - how customizable the whole thing is. Not just physical features, but nearly everything in their brain, as well. Personality traits. Skills. Knowledge. Interests. 

_(You can upload nearly anything,_ the receptionist chirped. She was extra chirpy. Mike wondered if she recognized his father, and was trying to give above-and-beyond customer service to impress one of the main sponsors and supporters of her business. _Say you want a cat person who plays billiards on the weekends. We’ll program those skills and interests directly into their brain as they develop, courtesy of our patented neuro technology. )_

The receptionist showed off the “models” as if she was the scientist that grew them from test tubes herself. The cheerful and quirky Manic Pixie Dream Girl with green hair. The intelligent and sophisticated pinup with perfect ‘50s waves. The coarse, insouciant Cool Girl with minimal makeup and a sports jersey. The sweet housewife with perfect skin and a perfume locket around her neck. The Party Girl, bouncy blonde waves and big breasts. All women, of course. Because Mike’s parents were very specific: his new Match will be a wife. Got to uphold that good old fashioned American tradition.

And inwardly, Mike cringed. He doesn’t want that; he doesn’t want to force someone to be what he wants, to create someone according to his whims. He’s never thought it was right, despite his father’s politics. And, sure, he likes girls okay. But he’s never been jazzed about the idea of a wife. He always pictured himself ending up with a guy, if ever he was to marry, if only to avoid ending up like his parents.

But he doesn’t really have that choice anymore.

Or - 

Wait. 

_Wait._

Mike’s heart starts thumping. He finally turned on the tablet, facing the prospect of filling out the questionnaire with the air of one facing the gallows, and his eyes froze on the first question.

_Would you like your Match to be male, female, nonbinary, other, or no preference? Please specify if other._

He thought for sure his parents would have already locked that choice down before he even got there. Maybe he’s not _quite_ as trapped as he thought.

Heart in his throat, he quickly marks in _male._

And immediately, he’s stymied again. How can he just pencil in this person’s entire personality, their whole existence? It doesn’t seem right. Selecting the “randomize” option a lot doesn’t seem like a smart idea either - who knows what kind of mess would result.

But he can’t walk out. His parents made it very clear that he’s going through with this whether he likes it or not. 

He hesitates.

He paces.

He calls his big sister.

* * *

Mike has a plan.

While Nancy sits beside him, watching over his shoulder, he starts in on the questionnaire. He fills in what he finds most important, first, with the goal of giving this person the best chance at freedom and individuality that he can. Going against the grain of what rich powerful people usually want, ordering spouses like this - _sweet, docile, down for anything, athletic, supermodel gorgeous, must have amazing cooking and cleaning abilities, etc., etc._ Barf.

With a surge of anger, Mike punches in as many “non-traditional” traits as he can. Curiosity, rebelliousness, intelligence, bravery, creativity, intuitiveness. He hopes that they’ll encourage - or at least allow - this Match to make their own decisions and be their own person. He gives them artistic skill so that they’ll be able to express themself. Kindness and empathy, he feels, are necessary for all people to have. Willingness to fight - he doesn’t want his Match to be docile or unnaturally agreeable, to him or anyone else. Playfulness. He doesn’t just want this person to exist to be his romantic partner, available at his beck and call for kisses or sex or whatever else - he wants them to be able to play around with him, laugh, tease, joke. He wants them to be able to see him as a friend. 

At Nancy’s suggestion, he also makes sure to specify that they should be encouraged to seek out new interests of their own - learn and grow and change. He gives them a thirst for knowledge - an interest in reading. And then, just to spite the mountain of suggestions in the margins ( _What kind of music does your Match enjoy? Popular choices include classical, New Age, and acoustic. What skills should your Match already have? You may want to consider skills such as homemaking, social networking, dancing, baking, or entertaining._ ), he adds things like _favorite movie genres: horror, thriller, sci fi;_ _favorite music genres: indie rock, grunge, classic rock, alternative, soft punk._ Under _miscellaneous skills,_ Mike includes things like _critical thinking, self defense,_ _wilderness survival,_ and _street smarts_ \- he wants his Match to be okay if they get into trouble

And then, with approximately ten percent of the questionnaire done, he hands the rest over to Nancy.

He doesn’t want to design someone to his own preferences. He won’t, he can’t. But he can’t just leave it to chance, either - that seems equally cruel. So someone has to do this, and there’s no one he would trust to do it for him other than his sister.

* * *

Nancy frowns over the tablet, a headache forming just behind her nasal cavities. 

Of course their parents would do this. Of course. Legally sign Mike up for this, use their lawyers and their money to back him into a corner, give him no choice. It would be just perfect for Ted Wheeler if his only son was seen out and about with his brand-shiny-new Match wife, superhumanly perfect and smiling prettily. Wouldn’t that just drive home the point? What better way to prove to the public that Matches are good - so long as you can afford one - than for the son of a respectable politician to make and marry one?

Except, that’s not what’s going to happen.

Not exactly.

Nancy didn’t exactly want to spend several hours of her Saturday like this, but if there’s any way to salvage her little brother’s happiness, she’ll take it.

Nancy is the one that decides the height (two inches shorter than Mike), the hair color (chestnut-brown, because she knows how Mike loves brunettes, and they’ll look good next to each other - not the same, but complimentary, a matching set), the skin tone (vaguely tanned). She’s the one that decides that he should have a somewhat dark sense of humor, that he should be an introvert (to balance out Mike’s extrovertedness), socially quiet (again, to balance out Mike) but sharp-tongued when he does speak, and mischievous. She also decides that this Match should be gentle - she’s seen enough of their parents’ acidity that she wants none of that for Mike. 

She gives him some flaws. Stubborn independence, occasional moodiness, restlessness, the proclivity to simmer (versus outbursts like Mike’s), a tendency to fidget, a tendency to be defensive. Mike did say he wanted a real person, after all. 

She gives him some complimentary attributes to Mike - Mike’s head is constantly in the clouds, so Nancy decides his Match should alert, aware of his surroundings - suspicious, almost. Mike is expressive and demonstrative, so she makes his Match a little more restrained and secretive. She knows Mike needs to exercise more, so she gives the Match an interest in jogging, hoping he’ll drag Mike along. She also knows Mike could use some more affection in his life, so she makes sure his Match is affectionate - not so much in public, and not with just anyone, but with the people he cares about. Close friends. His partner. Family. He likes giving loved ones hugs and petting their hair, as well as things like hand-holding and affectionate or reassuring touches. She makes him protective of Mike, because Mike needs someone looking out for him. She gives him some interests that Mike _does_ have (nerd stuff like D&D, fantasy, science fiction, movies, etc.) as well as some interests of his own that she generates at random (space and space exploration, _X-Men,_ road trips).

And so it goes. Half the time, Nancy hits _randomize_ until she hits on something that sounds right.

Career path: _TBD, but in a creative direction._ No way Mike’s partner is going into business.

Goals and desires: _TBD._

Fashion sense: a little bit grunge, she decides, just to spite their parents. A little bit retro. Casual, comfortable. A far cry from the put-together business-formal/business-casual look that their parents encourage in the family.

She randomizes the fears. Total darkness. Being stalked. Having a deep secret found out. Losing a loved one. Loss of control. Wasps. 

She’s been saving the physical appearance for last. She mulls it over for a good long while before filling in a mix of features that she knows Mike likes (brunette hair, hazel eyes, _slightly_ smaller build than him), and features that she thinks fits this person’s personality. A slightly more ‘90s haircut, to match his music taste (at least, no buzz cut, no short business-like hair). Long artist’s fingers. A face of average attractiveness which, after messing around with the projections a little, turns out both soft and sharp at once. An intriguing contradiction that Nancy decides she likes - it’s not immediately stunning, it won’t turn heads, but it makes you want to look twice. Lean cheeks, a soft jawline - not weak, but not strong and square, either. Long eyelashes. A very slightly hooked nose. Full brows. She goes back and gives his chestnut hair a little bit of wave, a slight tendency towards messiness. Slim but sturdy shoulders. She randomly generates the “blemishes” category and ends up with two moles just off-center of his Adam's apple, another one on his shoulder blade, and a finger-length burn scar on his side. And as a final touch, she decides that he should have glasses. She doesn’t think Mike expects that, and he wanted to be surprised.

_What should your Match call you, other than your name? (Popular choices include baby, sweetheart, dear, honey, Sir / Ma’am, boo, etc._ Nancy taps the stylus on the tablet for a moment before filling in a few options - a sweet one, one that Mike will laugh at, and a teasing one. _Love, bug,_ and _dork._

Last is the name. She randomly generates this, too - although she puts in a few constraints and gives it several whirls, rejecting _Eugene_ and _Michael_ and _Chad_ before she lands on _William_.

And that’s that. She hands the clipboard back to Mike and he turns it in to the front desk, calls his parents, and Nancy gets the hell outta dodge before they show up. Before she leaves, she hears some of the receptionist’s chattering. Telling Mike all about how the wait time will be six months - three for the Match to grow to adult maturity in a test tube, and then three months of testing, making sure his brain and body work properly. Socialization, classes. Letting him adjust to the harsh realities of existence.

“Congratulations on your new Match,” the receptionist enthuses just as Nancy steps out the door. “The love of your life is coming so soon.”

* * *

Will people-watches.

There’s not much else to do in the bunk room.

The other Matches around him talk and laugh and gossip. Clothes are optional and privacy is nil in here; many Matches walk around unclothed as they get ready to go take a shower or go to bed.

Will himself is changing out of his day clothes and into pajamas, and as he changes, he pauses. One wall of the bunks is a full-length mirror, which Will has long suspected is one-way. It seems a little redundant, considering the security cameras set up to keep an eye on them day and night. But, he supposes, you can’t be too careful when you have at least five million dollars worth of company assets gathered together in one room.

Five million. He did the calculation weeks ago, though he’s not sure if it’s exactly accurate. He only got a quick glimpse of that paperwork before they found him nosing around where he wasn’t supposed to be. But, with approximately two dozen of them in the facility at any one time... That should be about right.

_I could probably sell my kidney and never have to work a day in my life,_ he thinks, and smirks at the thought. Then frowns. He’ll probably never have a job anyway.

He glances at the mirror again as he dresses.

Many Matches have exaggerated features or supermodel beauty. Sharply defined muscles; six-packs; supernatural allure; unnaturally large penises or breasts; ribs showing, or spindly little limbs, not an ounce of fat on them; or lush, swooping curves. Improbable hair - deep cherry red, or wildly curly and platinum-blonde, or very, very long. One Match in his current group has pointed elf ears; another has slightly pointy canines, like a vampire. 

And then here’s Will, looking down at himself - average, for all he can tell. Not particularly muscled, but not spindly-skinny, either - he can tell he’s built to run, but his belly is soft with a thin layer of fat, not firm with muscle. He doesn’t have an improbably sized dick, like some of the other male Matches in the room, or interesting hair, or even a very attractive face. He looks pretty plain to his own eyes - no action-hero square jaw, no sexy-gruff beard, no high cheekbones and pillowy lips, no huge eyes or perfectly proportioned magazine face. In fact, he has glasses. Sometimes. Not right now, because they were hurting the bridge of his nose and he left them at the foot of his bed. Apparently he’s allowed to wear contacts, too, at his discretion, but he hasn’t quite gotten used to sticking something in his eyeball yet - so he sticks with glasses. 

Some of the other people in the room have glasses, too, but most of them are the cute, quirky girls with pink hair, or the quietly assured, tall, young-professor looking types. 

To be frank, Will is a little worried. He’s been worried pretty much since day one, and as the weeks and months go by, it only gets worse. Did something go wrong with him? Was he supposed to be taller? Stronger? Prettier, daintier? Or more rugged maybe, more handsome? Was he a fluke? They’d tell him if something went wrong, right? What if Will’s partner sees him and turns to a handler in surprise, saying, “I think there’s been a mistake”? What then? Will he be sent out onto the street to make his own way, or will he be chucked back into a test tube, dissolved into his constituent parts again so they can use his proteins to build someone better?

His appearance isn’t all that worries Will. He’s been a little taken aback by his partner’s other requests - specifically, how they differ from his peers’, and how the employees of Perfect Match seem a little befuddled by it, too. 

He argues more with his handlers - that’s one of the first things he noticed, especially since it seems like he’s one of the only Matches that does it. He disagrees with them often, when it seems like most of his peers just go along with whatever’s said or done. When handlers start to help him disrobe to do a medical check-up, he jerks away and snaps, “I can do it myself, thanks.” He pokes his nose where it doesn’t belong, and once got in trouble once for sneaking into an office and flipping through some files because the door was unlocked and they were out in the open. In one of his classes, a lecturer was talking about the economy, teaching them about financial responsibility. Will was the one that raised his hand, interrupting. It was a simple question. He just asked what kind of steps have been made to fix the obvious and cruel difference in financial statuses - and all he received in response was a flabbergasted glare. The lecturer stuttered and gestured and eventually spat out something vague and placating, and Will spent the rest of the class fuming. It’s not fair. This world he was just dropped into is so biased and toxic. He knows. He knows about the world, they all do. It’s part of their general background knowledge. He knows about pollution and world hunger. And these people are just acting like it’s okay because they’re rich and they can afford pretty distractions like him?

One day, after arguing with an exasperated handler because he skipped a class to hide and draw, one of his peers looked at him with big, thoughtful, glittering-blue eyes. “You know,” she said, “Your partner must like a challenge.” 

“What do you mean?” he ventured, distrustful, and she shrugged muscled shoulders, and brushed back a glossy waterfall of raven-black hair. 

“Well, you’re so uppity,” she said matter-of-factly. “ _Contentious._ Your partner probably wants you to put up a fight. It’s fun for some people.”

Will stewed over this for days, more worried still. _Is_ he contentious? Does he _want_ to fight with his partner? He doesn’t think so. He just wishes these people would give him space to breathe every once in a while. Why did his partner make him the way he is? Average-looking; not keen on socializing in large groups; drawn to an empty canvas or a thick book; observant, alert, hackles always half-raised. He knows basic self defense and wilderness survival, he knows how to quietly observe people, he knows how to sketch a portrait or a perspective piece. He likes the quiet and the fresh, damp, bracing air of a morning run. He likes the creeping thrill of a horror movie, especially late at night when he’s supposed to be getting a full eight hours of sleep (“beauty sleep,” as some of the handlers cheerfully call it). 

Why? What use is he, when so many other Matches are skilled chefs and interior designers, dancers and singers and makeup artists? 

And yet, worried as he is, he can’t wait to meet his partner. Maybe that’s just part of being a Match, something pre-wired in his brain that he can’t get past. Or maybe it’s the curiosity that’s slowly burning a hole through his stomach, turning to anxiousness and impatience. Who is this person that could have had any kind of partner imaginable - and yet didn’t want a beautiful, business-smart wife, or a strong, handsome, sociable husband? Why didn’t they want somebody like Faun, the tall, stately, androgynous modern dancer with aspirations of becoming a travel agent? Or Joel, the lumberjack-looking man who can’t wait to meet his partner’s children and take them all hiking? Or Crystal, the mildly terrifying chemist who already knows that she and her new partner are going to pioneer a flavor-science-based chain restaurant? Why did Michael B. Wheeler want someone like Will - a little short, but not enough for it to be cute; a little sullen, a little bit of a geek, a little wary of pitch-black rooms; a little bit fond of sunny skies and headphones and butterscotch hard candies? With no real interest in wearing suit jackets or eyeliner, no skills in cooking except for the basics class they all took, no amazing knowledge of chemistry or history? Why _Will_?

Michael Benjamin Wheeler.

Michael.

Mike.

Will’s partner didn’t sign the paperwork _Mike,_ he signed it _Michael,_ with a practiced, _I-sign-my-name-all-the-time_ scrawl, barely legible. But Will calls him Mike, in his head. It’s like a secret. Like something against the rules - and maybe it is. Maybe they’re only supposed to call their partners what they were told to. 

He knows a little about Mike. All the Matches know a little about their partners - like their other knowledge and skills, it’s uploaded into their brains when they’re made. When a partner fills out an order form for a Match, there’s an optional extra page they can fill out. A sort of _get to know me_ page. Will has seen Mike’s page. He’s traced the round letters with the pad of a finger, trying to picture the person that wrote them. The form is mostly full of trivial, inconsequential information. Name, gender, occupation. Basic interests, a handful of favorites. _Tell your new Match a little about yourself! What’s your favorite color? What’s your favorite vacation spot?_

If they really wanted to get to know their partner, Will thought when he first got to see that form, they’d ask things like, _what’s your greatest fear?_ or _what kind of scenarios do you daydream about while you wait to fall asleep?_ or _what do you want from me, really?_

But still, he commits the shallow stuff to heart. He can’t help it. He learns these small things about this person, and he tries to summon up the face and mind behind the handwriting. He sketches, sometimes, taking stabs in the dark at what Michael Wheeler might look like. And he remembers the trivia. Mike’s favorite color is blue. He’s a night owl. He likes playing Dungeons and Dragons, which Will had to look up on the Net late one night when he was hiding a stolen tablet under his blankets, because Dungeons and Dragons was not part of the general world knowledge uploaded to his brain. Mike’s favorite genre is fantasy. His favorite type of weather is rain. His favorite movie theater candy is Junior Mints. He wants to learn guitar but hasn’t gotten around to it yet.

_What do you look for in a partner?_

Curiously, that line has been left blank.

Somewhat troubling.

Still, Will just wants to hurry up and meet him already. He’s tired of being in his facility, and he’s tired of the twice-weekly checkups and the insipid classes and the bunks and showers he shares with the rest of the Matches. He’s tired of walking around in the same circles every day, just worrying and wondering. He wants to get on with his life - whatever it may be. He just wants to be anywhere but here. 

And moreover, he wants to see his partner. He wants to look into Michael Wheeler’s eyes - _love, bug, dork, Mike_ \- and see acceptance in them, see that Will really wasn’t all a big mistake. He wants to get the hell out of this place and curl up with his partner in his new home, and press his lips to Mike’s, and find out how Mike likes to be touched. _Does_ Mike like to be touched? Will doesn’t know. Some of the other Matches already have that knowledge pre-uploaded to their brains, but not Will. Maybe Mike doesn’t like sex; some people don’t.

He wants to know everything. Who is this person that’s supposed to be his partner, who requested Will specially? Why order a Match if he didn’t want somebody perfect? What does he think about all day? What does he do? What does he _want_ to do? What is his life like? Does he like it? What does he like, beyond the basic checklist on the paperwork? What does he want from Will, if not an easygoing, easy-on-the eyes partner to cook and do business at his side and warm his bed?

He wants to show Mike his favorite movies, which he’s discovered in the past couple months, and have Mike show him his own in return. Or walk around Mike’s hometown with him and see all the stores and streets and schoolyards where he grew up. 

Will has childhood memories, too, but it’s not the same. They’re generic, shallow. The same copy-and-paste 10th birthday party that all the other Matches remember, the same funfetti frosting and ten little candles and crowd of vague, faceless friends chanting _happy birthday to you_. The same broken arm in middle school, the same neon-green cast with friends’ names scribbled in sharpie. The same generic high school with its cliques and cafeteria food and eraser-smell. The same childhood pet (a white dog, in Will’s case), the same family vacation to the beach with a family that didn’t really exist, the same memories of suburbia. Sprinklers _rat-tat-tatting_ over wilting lawns, plastic pools in backyards, popsicles in the summer, snowmen in the winter. Christmas mornings, Thanksgiving dinners, Easter egg hunts. Neighborhood parks with monkey bars and swings and slides. Going to the movie theater, getting the flu. Getting chlorine up your nose and in his eyes at the local pool. 

The details, for each Match, are partly randomized and partly fit to their personalities - none of them have the exact same set of memories with the exact same components. For Will, his fictional 10th birthday may have taken place at a park - for Faun it could have been in a grandparents’ house. Joel, with his easygoing demeanor, remembers falling and skinning his knee and going to the nurse’s office; Will remembers getting detention for skipping class. Faun remembers an unrequited crush on an older classmate; Will remembers going hot in the face watching movies featuring a particular handsome actor. Elana remembers parents that got along. Will has vague memories that feel like a divorce and moving house. But by-and-large, everyone’s memories are of the same stock. Your average middle-class suburban childhood - so, really, only average for a very narrow selection of Earth’s population. Will finds it a little funny. Why don’t any of them have memories of growing up in Ethiopia, or growing up in poverty, or being in and out of hospitals from health problems?

* * *

It’s happening. The Big Day has finally arrived.

Will is a mess of nerves, but he thinks he’s doing a fairly good job of keeping that under wraps. When he glimpses himself in the mirror, he’s gratified to see only a slight pinch of worry in the set of his brows, his mouth, in the sleepless bags under his eyes. He doesn’t look like the jittery wreck that he is inside. 

All he can think is, _What if he doesn’t like me?_

He scrubs his skin raw in the shower, standing in the steam until a handler knocks on the door and tells him it’s time to shake a leg. They take the rest of his preparation into their own hands, buffing his hair dry and smearing cream into his skin. A bored hairdresser blow-dries and combs his hair with a round, bristly brush, pulling it away from his face, making him look handsomer and more professional than he really is. The outfit they offer him is simpler than he expected: dark, slim-fitting jeans and a button-down shirt. Last week, Elana’s new wife requested to meet her in a sparkling evening gown. Rumors circulate in the Match bunk room that sometimes a partner will request to have their Match meet them in nothing but lingerie. 

He buttons the shirt all the way up, only for the stylist to tut and shake her head and brush his hands aside, unbuttoning the top few buttons again. “That looks better,” she proclaims. “Not so stuffy, yes?”

They try to close in on him with a powder brush, wheedling - _just a little bit, just some blush, you’re so peaky_ \- but he refuses. He’s already so afraid that he isn’t what Mike wanted; he’d rather just rip the bandaid off. Get it over with. He wants his partner to look at him, as he really is, and either accept or reject him. No more of this wondering, no more beating around the bush. So they eventually give in, sighing and frowning, and content themselves with dabbing the shine from his nose and forehead with a kleenex. They spritz him with an expensive-smelling cologne before he can protest, and with that, they’re shuffling him off to the Meeting Rooms.

* * *

The Meeting Rooms are decorated like fancy restaurants. Or the inside of a yacht. After all, this is where Perfect Match’s clients will lay eyes on their very expensive purchases for the first time; the company doubtless wants the atmosphere to be as pleasant and calm and luxurious as possible. 

Warm, glossy wood paneling that almost seems to glow. Candles. Big windows that look out into the lush courtyard of the facility. Pots overflowing with ferns and flowers. Thick, soft carpet. One large leather couch - Will wonders, fleetingly, if it’s leather because they have to wipe it down after each first meeting, and quickly tries not to think about it. Instead he wanders around the room. He’s the first one in, and he’s alone; they told him Mike was still on his way. Will’s stomach is a tense, tight little knot. There’s a wine fridge in one corner, and a mirror in another. Will pauses in front of the mirror and resists the urge to mess with his hair. There’s a tray of fruit slices and chocolates on the coffee table in front of the couch, but Will feels like he’ll be sick if he puts anything in his mouth - and plus, he has the irrational fear that the moment he starts chewing something, the door will open and his mouth will be too full to say hello properly.

He sits down on the couch, then stands up again because he’s full of restless energy, then sits down because he doesn’t want to look twitchy. His knee bounces. He can tell he’s sweating under his shirt, and he tries to will himself to stop. He thinks of the saccharine “informational” videos that Matches all had to watch in class - glorified commercials, really. Onscreen, smiling Matches would rush into the arms of their partner, always perfectly complementary - a hipster with a hipster, an actor with a director, a businessman with a businesswoman, a tattooed thrill-seeker with a pierced adrenaline junkie. Happily matched couples would glide down ski slopes, drink champagne in first class, lounge in a bubble bath, light menorahs, jog together through well-lit city parks, kiss passionately on the balcony of some luxury hotel in Italy. All very well-dressed, well-to-do couples, no matter their lifestyle. But then again, Will supposes bitterly, you’d have to be rich to afford a product as expensive as him.

He wonders, with clenched teeth, what type of rich Mike is. Is he the yoga-on-the-garden-roof, hummus-and-tofu, clean-eating, health-nut, mountain-biking and spiritual-journey-vacations type of rich person? Or the type that has a big house in a wealthy suburb, with a long driveway and a wine cellar and at least one extra car in the garage - the type that thinks they’re middle-middle class because they have a mortgage, and tries to act like they’re _just getting by like everyone else_ when in reality they have more money than ten average families? Or perhaps the party type? Throwing money away by the bucketful on unnecessarily expensive dinners and technology they don’t need? Or maybe the Ivy League, old money type? Obsessed with The Classics, stuffy, thinks they’ve somehow earned their wealth because they’ve never had to face any real consequences for having it?

He’s only making himself more tense, so he stands yet again and goes to look out the window, thinking about what he knows about Mike, trying to calm himself. Mike’s favorite color is blue. He’s a night owl. He likes playing D&D, which is a sort of long collaborative board game. His favorite genre is fantasy. His favorite type of weather is rain. His favorite movie theater candy is Junior Mints. He wants to learn guitar. He's human.

The door opens, and Will whirls.


	2. Fleeing Headquarters

Will’s brain takes a moment to reconcile what he’s seeing with what he expected. 

Mike is tall, pale skinned and dark haired. Those are the first details Will registers, and then he realizes his glasses have slipped down his nose and he quickly prods them back into place, and the rest of his partner’s features come into focus. He has clear, deep brown eyes, like dark amber - visible even across the room because he’s washed in sunlight from the windows. Freckles are sprinkled across his face and arms, and they stand out in the sunlight. He’s dressed casually. In fact, his tee shirt has the Captain America shield on it. He looks no older than Will.

Will takes all this in before Mike pulls the door shut behind him. The moment that follows probably lasts no longer than a couple seconds, but it seems unbearably long. Will is acutely aware of how awkwardly he’s standing, how open the front of his shirt is thanks to the stylist’s fussing.

“Marvel,” Will says. Usually he’s content to leave a silence uninterrupted, but not this one. 

Mike’s head quirks in a confused little _huh?_ gesture, and Will nods at his shirt. “Marvel. I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is gonna work out.” 

Mike grimaces, and Will almost panics until he sees the smile trying to break through underneath, one corner of Mike’s mouth curling up. “Uh-oh. You’re not a DC guy, are you?” 

Will spreads his hands, giving his head a little toss as if to say, _well._

“Ugh,” Mike fake-groans, “Guess we’ll have to call it off then.” 

“Well, shit,” Will drawls, before he thinks to wonder if Mike doesn’t like swearing. And then, because he can’t stop himself, he adds, “Really?” 

“No,” Mike says quickly. “‘Course not, I’m just joking.” 

In the beat of silence that follows, Will can see - and feel - Mike looking him over. He tries not to cross his arms self-consciously. He doesn’t really know what he expected from his moment. Did he think Mike would walk in, take one look at him, say, “You’ll do,” and pull him out the door? Or that Mike would stride in with a grin and immediately sweep him into a kiss? Hold him tight and murmur, _There you are, finally, I’ve been waiting for you_? Will’s heart gives a sharp, idiot little ache at the idea.

They’ve been on opposite sides of the room, and Will paces forward with what he hopes is nonchalance. Mike mirrors the movement and they end up on either side of the coffee table. Will opens his mouth but can’t think of what to say - and thankfully, Mike catches the dropped ball.

“I’m Mike,” he says, offering a hand. The move is practiced, almost robotic, as if he shakes a lot of hands. “Short for Michael.”

 _Mike,_ Will thinks, as he grips Mike’s hand and finds an odd relief in the fact that it’s as sweaty as Will’s own. _Not Michael. Mike. I knew it._

“I’m Will,” he remembers to say. “I guess you knew that.”

But when Mike echoes, “Will,” it’s like he’s trying it out, tasting it. Like he never knew his own Match’s name before.

Which is ridiculous. Of course Mike knew Will’s name, he chose it. But a little prickle of goosebumps runs over the back of Will’s head anyway, hearing his partner say his name like that. Like it’s anything special.

Will lets go of Mike’s hand, feeling like he was holding it for too long. He’s champing at the bit to get going. He wants out of this facility, out of this lavish little room. He’s been high-strung all week, and since he woke up this morning he’s felt like his soul is vibrating at a frequency that could shatter glass. He wants to move, he wants out, _now._

“So, uh,” he ventures, “What now, are we heading out?” 

Mike makes a face. He’s very expressive, Will is realizing, every thought appearing immediately on his features. “Or we could hang around,” Will offers. He’s scrambling to please his partner, unsure what he wants, afraid of making a bad impression, and he hates himself for it a little. Since when was he so accommodating? 

“No, no,” Mike says. “I mean, we don’t have to.” He’s rubbing the back of his neck, showing off just how not-muscled his upper arm is, and for a moment Will almost wants to smile. “It’s just -” He jerks a thumb at the door with a grimace. “My parents are out there?” 

“Oh,” Will says, suddenly understanding. 

“And, uh. Well, they kind of thought they were paying to get me a wife.”

The bottom drops out from Will’s stomach. “Shit,” he says, blankly, forgetting again not to swear. He can’t think; his head is empty. “Shit. Uh. Was I not supposed to be...?” 

Oh, God. He wasn’t what Mike wanted, after all. There _was_ a mistake. Mike didn’t want Will, he wanted a wife. He knew something was wrong. They’re going to dump him on the street, or into an acid tank -

But Mike is shaking his head, reaching out impulsively to touch Will reassuringly on the shoulder - “No,” he’s saying, then laughing like he’s stressed, “No, no, that’s not what I meant. Let’s maybe sit, yeah?” 

They sit on the couch, and Mike drops his hand. Will’s shoulder feels a little cold without it. The leather couch is cold and too slick underneath him. Will’s mouth is dry, and his heart is hammering painfully at his ribs in sharp little taps. Mike holds his eyes - and, God, his eyes are so easy to look into, so deep and rich-brown, warm almost. 

“My parents wanted me to have a wife,” Mike reiterates, not breaking eye contact. “More traditional, I guess, hell if I know. But _I_ didn’t...” He rounds his lips like he’s about to say _order_ , then seems to change his mind. “I didn’t ask for a wife.” 

Relief. His heart rate begins to relax. “Oh,” Will breathes. But still he can’t wipe the worry from his mind, and he can’t help turning a little on the couch to face Mike more directly and blurting, “So I’m what you expected?” 

Worrying pause. Mike licks his lips. He’s so close, now, that their knees are almost touching. He thinks he can smell Mike’s cologne. Something reminiscent of the wind coming off the ocean, in the fake memories Will has of that cold pebble beach.

“I guess I didn’t really know what to expect,” Mike answers diplomatically. 

It’s not good enough.

“But I’m okay?” Will presses. Mike isn’t getting it, and Will can tell, so he takes a deep breath and lays his cards on the table. “Listen, lo- Mike, I don’t know what will happen to me if I’m not...” Vague gestures. He lowers his voice, unsure if Perfect Match left bugs in the room to listen in. “Up to snuff. They never really brought that up. So if something is wrong with me I want to know now, not later.” 

“Nothing’s wrong.” 

“But are you sure?” 

Mike makes a frustrated face, then gets serious. He stands, coaxing Will to stand too, and twirls a finger. Will turns, a little confused, and Mike nods when he comes back around. 

“You seem to have the right number of limbs to me.” 

“All five?” 

“Right.” 

Mike smiles, and without meaning to, Will smiles back at him. Okay. He’s okay. He can breathe. Mike isn’t digging around in his pocket for the return receipt. And then Mike glances over Will’s face again, taking in his features, expression searching, curious. And for a moment Will thinks maybe Mike is going to kiss him. He wants to. He’s spent so many nights imagining what his partner would be like and what it would be like to kiss them - but then Mike glances at the door. 

“I guess we probably _do_ have to go out and face the music soon.They’re waiting.” 

But all at once, Will hesitates. He was itching to leave before, anxious to move forward and just get this day over with, if only he could see what was around the corner. Now he wants more time. More time with his new partner before they have to go socialize - not to mention face the reactions of his parents. Mike is... He’s more than Will dared hope for. More than he imagined. Not twice Will’s age, not snobby or stuffy, not demanding and entitled. (Yet.) He’s funny, and a little awkward, and gorgeous. With his wavy black hair and his warm deep-brown eyes, and freckles thick across the apples of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His big hands, like puppy’s paws - just a little too big for the rest of him. The pale skin of his inner arms. His flushed lips. And he seems kind. It’s too soon to tell, just yet - Will isn’t naive - but Mike _feels_ kind. There’s something in his movements, how he seems respectful of Will’s space in a way that Will’s handlers never are, how he talks to Will like they’re equals, even though Will is just Mike’s Match. 

And it’s more than that. An energy, almost. Mike radiates warmth, and for a moment Will wants nothing more than to clamber directly into his lap and soak it in. Could it be affection? Is that what he sees in Mike’s eyes when Mike looks at him? Will hasn’t felt affection from another person before, not really. The other Matches in the bunks tended to treat each other as friends, but distant ones. They all knew they’d be somewhere else soon, and anyway, they were focused on studying up for their partners. And their handlers never treated them with anything more than businesslike detachment or cursory attention. More than anything, Will wishes Mike would grip his shoulder again, or hug him, or even take Will’s face in his hands and kiss him. And kiss him. And kiss him. Why hasn’t he yet? Is Will so unkissable? Doesn’t Mike know he could just push Will down against the leather couch cushions right now and unwrap him like a birthday gift? On the one hand, Will is relieved - he’s not sure he’s ready for that yet. But on the other, he’s a little stung - a little confused. _You spent so much money on me,_ Will wants to say, _don’t you want to take me for a test drive before you leave the lot?_ Isn’t that what these rooms are for? Don’t the leather couch and the wine and the chocolates attest to that?

The chocolates.

“Actually,” Will ventures. He’s eyeing Mike from the corner of his eye, testing his boundaries. “Why don’t we keep them waiting a little longer?” 

Mike flops back against the couch, slouching. “You don’t have to convince me.” Then he looks at Will curiously. “What do you have in mind?” 

Several things come to mind. Few of them Will can say aloud. He leans forward and takes a wedge of watermelon from the tray. “Food?” He bites into it, and then remembers something halfway through chewing. “Mm -” he hums, and swallows. “There’s wine, too, if you...?” 

Mike blows out a breath. “Honestly, I might need it to face my parents.” 

Will stands, grateful for the excuse to shake out his nerves, and goes to the little refrigerator, cracking it open to peer inside. “There’s red, white, rosé, and champagne,” he reports. “Preference?” 

“Uhm,” Mike grunts, clearly talking through a mouthful of chocolate. “I don’t really know anything about wine. Do you?” 

“A little.” Will is sliding out bottles, examining the labels. “They had us take a wine tasting course for a couple of weeks, I guess so we’d be cultured or something.” 

“Oh.” 

“Do you like champagne? It’s a special occasion.” Will feels dumb as soon as he says it, but when he looks back Mike is smiling shyly at his feet. 

“Yeah. I guess it is.” 

Will plucks two champagne flutes from the nearby rack, sets them on the coffee table, and prays that he remembers how to do this. Foil torn off. Wire cage untwisted and removed. He braces the bottle against his hip and twists, working the bulbous cork halfway free. Mike picks up a glass in preparation to catch some of the initial fizz. 

“Um.” Will catches Mike’s eye, shaken once again by how magnetic his gaze is. “To...” He’s supposed to say something here, but he can’t think of anything that’s not horrendously cheesy. What kind of empty phrases were they taught in class for situations like this? To new beginnings? To love? To being overwhelmingly relieved that he’s not being carted off by someone cruel or crude or uncaring, to be used as a maid or a decoration all his life? 

“To,” Mike picks it up, running his tongue over his teeth for a moment as he thinks. “A new life.” He grimaces, physically cringing. “Fuck. That was awful, it sounded better in my head. Let’s just dedicate it to Captain America.” 

“To the Captain,” Will agrees, laughing, and shoves his thumb up on the cork. The bottle opens with a _bang_ and a spray of fizzy, sparkling wine, which Mike hurries to catch in their flutes.

* * *

If Mike’s estimate is correct, he’s kept his parents waiting for almost two hours.

They wanted to come into the room with him. In fact, he had to refuse them three times before they agreed, grumpily, to go wait in the waiting room. This had two advantages: one, they won’t know that Will isn’t exactly wife material until they emerge. And two, Mike didn’t think he’d be able to face this, face _Will,_ with his parents hanging over him, watching every second.

Will. 

Nancy never told him his Match’s name, and he never asked.

Will doesn’t look like a Match. Sometimes, at a fancy cocktail party, it’s easy to pick them out. The magazine super-beauty, the superhero in civilian clothes. It can be a bit of a guessing game, if you’re really bored - _are you a Match or do you just have enough time and money to look like one?_

But Will looks like someone Mike could have gone to high school with. The top of his head is about at Mike’s eyebrows, when they’re standing. His frame is compact; he looks like a guy that could have been in track and field in school. Brown hair, green-brown eyes behind large, softly rectangular glasses with slim, glossy black frames. There are bags under his eyes, and the skin of his lower lip is a little ragged, like he’s been nervously chewing at it. He has a somewhat narrow face - not long, but not particularly broad, either, with soft cheekbones and two moles on his neck. They’ve got him dressed in slim cut jeans and a loose button-up shirt, only three-quarters buttoned, which Will seems a little self-conscious about. Mike supposes Perfect Match wanted to make sure that he took note of the fine smattering of hair leading down towards Will’s belly. Not that Mike meant to look at that. He just couldn’t help but notice. So, mission success, he guesses.

Will smells expensive, and that doesn’t quite feel right. He smells like a name-brand cologne, the kind they sell in glass bottles with decorative caps, with names like _Joi_ and _No. 52_ and _Cole._ It doesn’t suit him. He smells like one of those hand-shaking, networking, business-lunch, sports-car-owning men that show up at the Wheelers’ New Years parties. Mike figures that Perfect Match picked it out. Not that it’s bad, in fact it smells very good, it just doesn’t seem to match the rest of him.

Mike knows this because he and Will are currently leaning on each other, laughing so hard they’re out of breath because they’ve finished the bottle of champagne and one of them mispronounced the word _apricot_ and somehow it was the funniest thing either of them had heard all day. They’re not drunk. It was a skinny bottle, shared between the two of them, so they’re not drunk. But they are tipsy.

They’ve also, in the past hour and a half, eaten their way through the fruit and chocolates and, finally getting over the initial speed bump of awkwardness, talked. A lot. They talked about the facility (Mike wanted to know everything about what kind of life Will has been leading in here, what they did to him, where he’s been sleeping, who he’s been with, what kind of classes he’s been taking, if they treat the Matches well at all) and about Mike’s parents (Mike wanted to explain right up front that he doesn’t quite get along with them, so Will is forewarned), and music, and concerts they’d like to go to, and places they’d like to visit someday, and cartoons, and languages, and dumb things they’ve seen on the Net.

It’s stupid, but Mike can’t say how relieved he is that Will seems like... well... a regular person. He would have been infinitely uncomfortable if he had walked in to greet someone smiley and retiring, like a cheerful spouse in an old, sexist commercial. But Will is sharp as a tack. Dry-humored with a dark twist that, more than once, takes Mike aback. Thoughtful and observant. Contrary. For a few minutes there, Mike forgets what he’s doing here. He forgets why he’s here, and who Will is - he forgets that this isn’t just a new friend.

And now hours have passed, and the champagne bottle is empty, and Mike is twisting his watch on his wrist, swallowing a giggle. “Shit, it’s 2:48.”

“Is it?”

“I told them I’d be out there at 1:10.”

Will stares at him, then bursts out laughing, horrified. “Mike!” He gathers himself, wiping his eyes under his glasses. “Are they gonna be mad?”

“Yeah.”

Another moment of seriousness, and then they both break down again.

“This,” Mike gasps, snorting. “This is gonna be bad.”

* * *

It was, indeed, bad.

Mike’s parents were not pleased to have been waiting so long.

They were not pleased to find Mike with flushed cheeks and very slightly uneven steps.

They were also not pleased with Will.

Will knew, the moment Mrs. Wheeler’s smile faltered when she laid eyes on him, that the confrontation would be rough. And it was. Lots of _we talked about this,_ and _why is it so hard for you to help this family?_ and _you should have told us about this sooner._ For a moment he was afraid that Mike’s parents would flag down an employee and say, “There’s been a mistake.” Apparently they’re the ones who paid for him - not Mike. They made that plenty clear over the course of the conversation.

But fortunately - or maybe unfortunately - they then pivoted into a different topic to fight about.

“... and drunk for your own ceremony, too, good God, what’s wrong with you?” Mr. Wheeler is griping.

Mike’s eyes roll. “Jesus, I am not drunk, I -” His head snaps around, as if he just processed something. “Wait, my what? The what?”

Karen Wheeler makes a _are you kidding me_ gesture. “Did you forget that part?”

Mike gapes. “That’s now!?” 

“Well, you said you didn’t want a big event - we _fought_ about that, remember? So I figured -” 

“Mom!” 

Will looks back and forth between them. The atmosphere in the room is tense enough that Will actually makes eye contact with an employee across the room and they exchange _yikes_ faces.

Mrs. Wheeler is on a roll. “Why am I the bad guy right now? You said you didn’t want a big party, and Perfect Match does in-house ceremonies, so I went ahead and set it up for you.” 

Mike is staring at her with an open mouth. “I kind of thought we’d get to plan that ourselves,” he’s saying, gesturing at Will, but his mother is talking over him - 

“I really don’t understand why I do nice things for you and you act like it’s a burden,” she’s huffing. “We spent all this money because we want you to be _happy,_ Michael, is it too much to ask for you to give your mother some nice pictures with the certificate? If you want a big party you can always have one later.” 

Mike mouths wordlessly, looking back and forth between his mother and Will. 

Will doesn’t know what to think. Did Mike not want to get married to him? He supposes not all partners marry their Match, but most do. Was that not the plan? And then something else occurs to him, something that flips his perspective on a dime: maybe Mike wanted it to be special. He said he thought that he and _Will_ would plan it. Maybe he didn’t want a big, fancy party, _or_ an in-house Perfect Match ceremony. 

But before Will can process this, then Karen is side-eyeing him, sighing, “Of course, I had a dress picked out for the bride and everything, but... oh well.” 

* * *

It’s pretty simple - a courtroom wedding, basically. They’re whirled through it so fast that Will wonders if Mike’s parents are trying to pick up the pace on purpose. Or maybe it’s the Perfect Match staff, who heard Mike’s complaints and want to make this happen and collect the check before Mike can change his mind about the ceremony.

They’re hustled cheerfully from room to room. It’s wedding planning on fast-forward; an engagement period in miniature.

They get to pick their rings. They’re fit for ring size, then presented with a tray of options Well, more specifically, Mike is presented with a tray, which he then tilts towards Will. They choose for each other. Simple, sturdy-looking bands. Mike’s is dull gold ( _"_ _Actually,”_ an employee points out helpfully, unprompted, _“It just looks like gold. It’s actually much stronger and more durable!”_ ) and is inlaid with a band of polished wood. Will’s is brushed silver, engraved with a chain of what look like flowers. Upon closer inspection, Will sees that they’re shooting stars. He rubs a thumb over the rough-smooth surface. He’s always liked watching the stars, on the rare occasion that he gets an opportunity.

Apparently there are tuxes and suits and dresses galore for rent. Mike’s father tries to convince him to rent a suit - “I _told_ you you shouldn’t have dressed like some retail worker on his day off, Michael.” - but Mike will have none of it, and Will can’t help but agree. 

Although, after Mike repeatedly refuses the suit, Will leans in and mutters, “What, you don’t want a dress, either?” 

“I’ve never looked good in dresses,” Mike whispers back, making Will snort.

There’s a photographer who circles them, snapping picture after picture - Mike seems increasingly annoyed by this.

There’s a dedicated Ceremony Room with generic fancy decoration. In fact, it’s similar to the Meeting Room, but bigger and with more white drapery. 

There’s an altar. They’re told to join hands. The photographer clicks away. There are vows printed on creamy card stock in metallic gold ink, which they’re supposed to read aloud, at the prompting of the officiant. Will gets to the _obey_ part - which, he notices, only shows up on the Match’s card - and Mike wrinkles his nose and whispers, “Pass,” just loud enough for him to hear, almost making him laugh and mess up the rest of the vows. Rings on fingers. I promise this, I promise that, I do, I do.

All at one they’ve reached _you may kiss the groom_ . Will kind of forgot about that part. He looks up at Mike - he has to tilt his back back a little because they’re standing so close. And Mike is right _there,_ already, pressing a soft closed-mouth kiss to Will’s lips so fast Will barely realizes it’s happening before Mike pulls slowly away, his face completely red from all the over-enthusiastic cheering of the staff and his parents. For a moment Will wants to hook a finger into Mike’s shirt front and pull him back. _Come back here,_ he thinks, _That was nothing._ But this isn’t the right time for that.

Mike’s mother wants a lot of pictures. She convinces Mike to pose with the certificate, with Will, with the certificate _and_ Will. In front of the altar, on a veranda, in front of some flowers. The photographer coaches them along when they get too stiff, telling them to “shake out the jitters, don’t be shy, it’s just a camera.” 

Mike hates it, and Will can tell. 

“Cake,” he reminds Mike in a whisper as Mike grits his teeth through the last round. Because after this, they get to go sit down in a bedecked alcove and pick a small, elaborately frosted wedding cake to share with the “guests.” Will is already planning to smear a dab of frosting down Mike’s nose - he saw that in a movie once, and he’s wanted to try it ever since.

Finally, they’re offered a selection of wine to celebrate. Mike and Will look at each other and shrug - _hey, we’re already halfway drunk, may as well._ Mike chooses one, this time, and makes direct eye contact with his parents as he accepts the freshly-opened bottle and, instead of pouring it into glasses, takes a sip directly from the bottle and hands it to Will. Will tries not to laugh as he accepts it and takes a sip of his own, watching Mike’s father drop his face into a palm. Without aerating in a glass it’s too sharp, the aftertaste pungent, but Will doesn’t mind much. Mike’s little acts of petty rebellion are beyond encouraging. Every one gives Will another little taste of Mike’s personality, and he’s shaping up very quickly to be someone Will likes. A lot.

* * *

“I thought no one knew,” Mike growls.

He’s growling at his father.

They’re standing just behind the Perfect Match front doors. They were about to head out to the car that’s here to pick them all up, but there’s a bit of a crowd in the way.

“Sorry,” he adds to Will, “I wasn’t expecting this.” And then back to his father: “We agreed not to make any kind of statement.”

“Well, I don’t know about any kind of statement,” Mr. Wheeler drones, fixing his tie. Clearly preparing to go out and look presentable for the cameras. “Word just tends to get out, Michael, you know that.”

Mike glares at him. _You told everyone, didn’t you?_ he thinks. _Of course you want tabloid pictures of me and my Match. It’s just, you were really expecting a wife hanging onto my arm, but a Match is a Match._

And all at once Mike realizes what this is going to be - what life is going to be like for Will. Constantly either fawned over or called an _unnatural abomination,_ always dodging cameras, paraded around as a spectacle, an example - _And here’s the Match of the son of Theodore Wheeler!_

And he looks at his father, he looks at the doors, he looks at Will, and he thinks, _Nope._

He’s had enough of that life, and he refuses to condemn anyone else to it. Especially his... husband. It’s still so strange to think that. So, they’ll have to go another way.

* * *

“Oh, Will,” Mike says, as if he just remembered something. “We forgot your jacket in the Meeting Room.” 

He stares at Will meaningfully, and Will is about to say, _I didn’t have a jacket,_ but then he catches on. This is a ruse.

“Oh - oops.”

Mike takes him by the hand and starts moving back through the lobby, addressing his parents over his shoulder. “Go on to the car, okay? We’ll be right out.” 

The second they turn a corner, Mike mutters, “Know any other way out of this place?” 

“Um... Wait. Yeah. There’s a door to the grounds, they let us go running out there sometimes. Or yoga on the lawn, or bird-watching, or whatever. But I think the grounds are all fenced off, there’s no way out from there.” 

Mike thinks. “They cook food for you, right?” 

Will looks at him blankly and very evenly says, “No. I’ve never eaten anything in my life.” Mike jostles him with an elbow, and Will realizes all at once that they’re still holding hands. To distract himself from that soft, reassuring pressure, he says, “Why?” 

“Because I bet they get grocery deliveries.” 

A small, devious grin is beginning to curl up one corner of Will’s mouth. He likes where this is going. “So, if groceries can get in...” 

“We can get out.” 

* * *

As they’re sneaking through the staff hallways, Mike taps away at his phone, summoning a ride. He gives Will intermittent updates in whispers - “Okay, there’s a car on the way.” “They’re eight minutes away.” “They’re five minutes away. They’re a little confused by what _kitchen entrance_ means, but we’ll figure it out.”

They encounter a Perfect Match staff member twice. They get away with it once. 

The first time, a confident posture and a firm, “Afternoon,” was all it took to get past. The second time, Will smiles and says, “Hey, kitchens are this way, right?” 

“Yeah, down this way and left.” And then the employee takes a second look at them. “Are you lost or -?” 

Mike panics. With a yank at Will’s hand, he takes off running, leaving Will to stumble and scramble after him, tugged along by the arm, laughing so hard he can’t breathe. Again. He thinks he’s laughed more today than he has in his whole life.

“Michael!” he protests. “This is so unnecessary!” 

“They have security guards!” Mike whisper-yells back as they skid around the corner on the plain staff-hallway linoleum. They’re both unsteady from the wine, careening around corners. 

“Yeah, but they’re not gonna go after _us,_ dipshit - I’m a Match and you’re a client -” 

“We’re not supposed to be back here!” 

“This was _your_ idea!” 

“Oh! Kitchen!” Mike is pointing to a set of large swinging doors with round windows like portholes.

They tumble through the doors, very narrowly avoiding taking out a frazzled dish-washing girl. “Sorry!” Will yells, and then, “‘Scuse us!” as they dart between counters and stovetops, leaving dumbfounded stares and indignant shouts in their wake. 

The noise and heat of the kitchen is incredible, chefs dodging out of the way with knives in hand, very narrowly avoiding an accidental stabbing. Fire leaps up from one stovetop and Mike knocks down two ladles with a _clang-clank!_ as he swerves to avoid the flames. 

“My bad!” 

They stumble-run the final stretch, towards a promising glimmer of daylight, and a moment later Will’s palms slam into the painted metal of the door marked _Deliveries Only - Keep Clear._ They almost knock over the very surprised delivery woman beyond, who yells, “Excuse you, what - hey!” after them as they sprint through the truck bay and out the gaping garage doors, into the light.

And he’s out. Just like that, he’s out of the facility. No walls, no electric fences. 

Well. There’s still one fence, surrounding the whole complex, but _that_ fence has a _gate_. He’s a single car ride from being free of this place. 

Jogging to a stop in the sunlight, which is strong enough today to press hot intangible hands to his face, Will gives a hop and a _whoop_ that startles a nearby bird. Mike is out of breath, laughing a little, and their hands are sweaty where they interlace. He’s leaning over to catch his breath, and when he looks up at Will through his disheveled bangs, Will thinks for the second time today that Mike is about to kiss him. Right there, with the smell of sun-baked fresh-cut grass thick in the air around them and the taste of wine still soaked into his tongue, in the hot sun, with the distant sound of chattering voices somewhere around the corner of the building - that must be the crowd of reporters and paparazzi that they’re avoiding. 

And then something catches Mike’s eye and he straightens, checking his phone. “That’s him,” he says, and starts waving his arms. 

A red car pulls partway up the _deliveries only_ drive, then halts with its hazards on, and Mike rushes up to the open window. 

“Hey, who are you here to pick up?” 

“Mike W.?” the driver responds, and Mike opens the back door with a grin. 

“That’s me.” 

“You heading to Spruce Ridge, right?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

_He didn’t use his full name,_ Will observes as they clamber into the back set and the driver pulls the car around in a tight U-turn. Why? Because otherwise the driver might recognize him, like all those people in front of the building?

They get settled, close the door, and they start moving.

The car trundles along, following the one-way roundabout towards the gate. 

Will doesn’t have anything, he realizes. He owns not a single thing but the glasses on his face and the clothes on his back, and the simple wedding band on his left hand that he’s still so oddly aware of. They didn’t give him anything to take with him - not his old clothes, not his sketchbook, not even the contacts that he never liked to use. 

If Will twists in his seatbelt, looking through the back window, he can see the milling crush of people around the front doors of Perfect Match Inc., waiting for him and Mike to emerge. He wonders how fast his old bunk will fill up - if they’ll be a brand-new Match in his old bed by tomorrow. If anyone in there will miss him. 

“My mom’s gonna call me in about two minutes,” Mike says, seeing the direction of Will’s gaze. “Just wait.” 

Will faces forward again. They’re approaching the gate. He realizes that he’s holding his breath, expecting something to happen, but before he can even brace himself, the gate is rolling open at the car’s approach, and they’re crawling over the speed bumps, and then it’s over. He’s past the final gate. He’s out in the world, with nothing to his name but some clothes and a new husband.

A foreboding ringtone buzzes through the car. Mike flips his phone screen-up, revealing Karen Wheeler’s picture. Even in the photo she looks a little disapproving, her hands overlapping on her knee, her smile fixed. 

Mike catches Will’s eye and makes a face that says _I told you so,_ and he answers. “Hey, Mom. ... what? No, we left already. We - yeah. No, we got a ride. ... No, I said, go on home and we’ll meet you later. Yes, I did. We went right past you, you didn’t see us? I waved.” 

_Bull-shit,_ Will mouths at Mike. 

“Well, I’m sorry, I thought you saw us. I figured you’d want to leave, with the crowd and everything. Okay, well -” A long pause as Mike listens to the other end of the line, expression unimpressed and long-suffering. Finally - “Okay. Sorry. Yeah, we’ll see you for dinner. Okay. Okay. Okay. Yup, see you.” He hangs up and stuffs his phone in his pocket, head falling back against his seat. Then he mumbles, “That could’ve gone worse.” 

“Are they mad?” 

“Always.” Then he seems to rally, sitting up a little. “Don’t worry, we won’t have to deal with that for long.” 

“The press, or the parents?” 

“Hopefully both.” Mike’s knee bounces. He seems to be psyching himself up to something, and Will leans forward - once again hoping for a kiss. Instead, Mike quietly says, “I’ve been thinking.”

“About?”

Another few seconds of hesitation, and then all intensity melts from Mike’s frame as he shrugs, seeming to toss off the idea. “Harebrained schemes and shenanigans,” he says lightly, and Will senses that there’s something he’s not ready to say yet.

So instead, he arches and eyebrow and says, “Tomfoolery?”

“Plenty of that.”

“Fuckery?”

“For certain.”

“Haberdashery?”

“Let’s not go overboard.”

They giggle, and at a stop light, the driver hands a cord back between the front seats. “Want to pick music?”

Mike takes it and plugs it into his phone, then offers it to Will. Will scrolls through the options, curious, taking in - and quietly judging - Mike’s music collection. He hones in on an eclectic band he’s listened to before. Mike gestures at the album cover.

“You like?”

“Yeah.” Will glances at him. “You didn’t know that? I thought they had you pick music taste.”

“Oh.” Mike messes with the hair at the back of his head - an uncomfortable tick that Will is starting to recognize. “I left some stuff up to chance, I guess.” He shrugs and drops his hands. “What’s the fun of getting to know someone if you already know everything?”

 _Oh, Bug,_ Will thinks. He’s smiling, almost grinning, and he looks down to hide it. Their rough-and-tumble flight through the staff corridors dislodged his hair from its special-occasion ‘do, so it falls partway over his face, hopefully obscuring the expression. _You are good._

The car winds through a midsize city, and Will watches the buildings pass. Mike still hasn’t kissed him since that first barely-there peck in front of the altar, but Will is too reluctant to push his luck, especially in front of the driver. He thinks of the shouting crowd that they caught a glimpse of before Mike slammed the doors again. The reporters with microphones, most yelling Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler’s names, some yelling Mike’s. 

_Don’t worry, we won’t have to deal with that for long. I’ve been thinking._

_What are you planning, Mike?_ he thinks as they drive. _What are you up to?_


	3. Rocky Road

Mike is battling his Rich Kid Syndrome. 

Growing up, he lived in a household where _stuff_ equaled _love_. He and Nancy and Holly always had mountains of presents to open on Christmas. A deeply embarrassing amount of presents, looking back on it as an adult. It’s the same way now, even as adults, with Nancy long since moved out and Mike... Well, with Mike planning his escape. _Stuff_ still represents _love_ in the Wheeler household. Holly, now thirteen and aggravatingly more teenager-ish by the day, is awash in all the gadgets and fads she could ask for. Birthdays mean expensive watches and big dinner parties. Even Mike and Nancy catch themselves doing it more often than they’d like, though they try not to. They’ll get together for a siblings’ day out and catch themselves falling into old habits - _Let me pay for lunch. No, no, let me pay for it. Hey, you want to go into Lush? Come on, I know you have that big bathtub in your new place. Let me get you this tie. It’s nice, it’s a good color on you. You should wear ties more often. I’ll pay for the ride. I’ll pay for drinks._ Let me get you this, let me get you that. Let me take care of you in the only way that our parents taught us. 

But for their parents, it's not just habit, it’s strategy.

 _We bought you a car for graduation. We didn’t manage to show_ up _for graduation, because we were on a business trip. But we bought you a car._

_We reserved you a spot on our Christmas vacation with us. Yes, you’re coming. What other plans could you have? We’re your family. You don’t want a vacation?_

_We’re going to get a new suit tailored for you. And speaking of, you should wear it to this meeting coming up. Well, of course you want to give your father a hand, don’t you? And anyway, you need to network. You never network, Michael._

_We bought you a mini fridge for your suite like you wanted so you don’t have to walk downstairs to the kitchen in dirty jeans and embarrass us in front of our guests._

_We bought you a guitar so you can finally shut up about wanting to learn._

_We bought you a new phone._

_We paid your tuition._

_We bought you a spouse - now you owe us a perfect family image. Smile._

Mike hates thinking that he’s falling into the same patterns as his parents. But he can’t help it. It’s what he knows - and besides, he doesn’t want to go home yet. So instead, their ride pulls up and parks in front of a store Mike has considered entering many times.

“Are you allergic to anything?” he says as Will climbs out of the car, looking around at the outdoor mall with interest.

“Um, some sort of grass, I think,” Will says absently. “It’s on my paperwork somewhere.”

Mike’s father wanted to take Will’s paperwork and file it away in his own office for safekeeping. Fortunately, Mike beat him to it - after everything was signed, this afternoon, Mike arranged for it to be sent to Nancy. He’ll pick it up later. In the meantime, no way he’s taking any chances by leaving it in his parents’ house. 

“No animals?” Mike asks as they enter the store. He doesn’t think Will is even paying much attention to which store they’re walking into; he’s too fascinated by the world around him.

“No.”

“Well, that’s lucky. That means your choice is unrestricted.” 

Mike watches as Will finally tunes in to where they are, blinking around behind his glasses. (And, something in the back of Mike’s brain whispers, he really is cute in those glasses.) The ceiling is high, like in most big stores. The floor is shiny white tile. The air is full of various squeaks and squawks, along with a slight aroma of terrariums, aquariums, cages and kennels.

Will’s head turns back and forth, taking in the huge signs hanging from the ceiling. To their left, fish and reptiles. To their right, cats and dogs. Down the center, various birds and rodents. Mixed species, like the winged rabbit, are in the back corner, specially protected behind glass displays. They’re expensive.

Will finally looks back to Mike. “My choice?”

“Anything.” Mike spreads his arms. “Multiple, even. For small ones. I mean, who just gets one fish? Not that you have to get fish. Just -”

“Wasn’t your mom saying something about you living with them right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t they gonna be annoyed?”

He huffs a small, humorless laugh. “When are they not? Anyway -”

He cuts himself off. He was about to say, _Anyway, we won’t be living there for long. This is just temporary._ But it’s a half-baked plan, and he doesn’t know exactly how he’s going to achieve it.

“Anyway,” he tries again, “I have - _we_ have a suite, upstairs, so if they have a problem we’ll just keep it up there with us.”

Will’s skepticism is fading, a bright, childlike eagerness rising to replace it. He looks to Mike again. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

Will sticks out a lower lip, pretending to think hard. “Snake.”

Mike sucks in a breath. He said anything. “Sure.”

“Tarantula.”

“I actually like that idea better, believe it or not.”

Will laughs and knocks Mike on the arm with a knuckle. “I’m kidding, I don’t actually want those.” 

Mike makes a _phew_ gesture. “Well, what are you thinking, then?”

“No idea.” Will’s expression turns thoughtful - maybe a little sad. “I’ve never thought about it.”

“Well -” Mike lifts a hand towards the fish and they start walking, wandering down an aisle of colorful pebbles and plastic plants. “Why don’t we take a look around, then?”

* * *

Will wants to see everything.

They spend a lot of time in front of the fish tanks just because he likes watching them; he stops by the reptile corner mostly out of curiosity; he smiles at the squeaky mass of sharp-eyed, quick little birds in their cages. He pets a rabbit, and at Mike’s suggestion, they even get an employee to escort them into the back, where glittering, rainbow-scaled lizards dart between leaves, and meek, feathered and furred winged rabbits roost in fake tree branches. Will grimaces at the price tags, but Mike waves it away, just saying, “It’s fine.” But Will doesn’t think he wants to buy one of these. He can’t help looking at these animals, designed in a lab and displayed behind a large price tag, and thinking, _You too, huh, buddy?_

They walk past the row of dog kennels several times, pointing out the cutest or most energetic puppies. But it’s not until they come to a window near the corner of the store that Will stops. 

Behind the class, a mass of gently breathing fur shifts gently. Little ears and paws appear here and there; it’s a pile of siblings, all curled up together to sleep. As he watches, one small head rises from the jumble, mouth opening wider than the whole head in an enormous yawn. It’s a calico kitten. She looks like a bowl full of rocky road ice cream, all chocolate and marshmallow and caramel. There’s a splotch of black across her nose and one lip, as if she dipped her face into something. The sign beside the window announces, _Hi! We’re four months old and very friendly! Ask an employee to visit us!_

Five minutes later, they’re in a visiting room, twitching a feather toy across the floor and watching the calico kitten tumble after it with heaps more enthusiasm than grace or skill.

Thirty minutes after that, they’re loading up the trunk of their ride with kitten food, a scratching post, mousey toys, litter, a litter box, and more. Rocky herself rides in her carrier between them in the backseat, looking snazzy in her brand new Star Trek collar - which designates her as a captain.

* * *

Holly is rather annoyingly squeaky about Will. 

She’s at the age where she’s all about romance, Mike tells him, and constantly reading some book about a love triangle, usually with at least one fairy, demon, werewolf, selkie or vampire thrown into the mix. She thinks - or, rather, she’s been told by her parents, as Mike amends - that making a Match is just the most romantic thing _ever_ , and she spends all of dinner grinning at Mike and Will, giggling at them whenever they tilt an unwanted vegetable onto the other’s plate and sighing over their wedding rings. 

Mike throws a napkin at her and tells her to shut it, but Will can tell that he cares about her. He meets her eyes when she’s talking, to show that he’s listening to her when their parents aren’t paying attention, and he asks her if she did her homework, and if her new tutor is working out okay. Mike also tells Will that he has another sister - an older sister named Nancy, who lives a little ways up north, working as an investigative reporter. 

“You’ll meet her soon,” Mike promises. “I think she’d be -” A slight pause, like he’s choosing his words. “Really interested to meet you.” 

_What does that mean?_ Will wonders through his bite of salmon. _Is she actually interested or does she not like Matches?_

Mike’s parents also spend a good portion of dinner grilling Will, despite Mike’s obvious attempts to steer conversation in a different direction. So, does Will like to cook? No? Well, that’s all right, most families have a personal chef, well, most families that he’ll be meeting, anyway. Most important families. What about dancing or financing? Only basics? What did they teach him in there? 

And Will starts feeling a little hot around the ears, those old insecurities creeping back and gnawing at him. _You’re supposed to be better. You’re not good enough, not by a long shot. You’re a mistake. Nobody wants you. Soon they’ll all realize what a mistake you were and they’ll send you back. You have to make up for it. You have to make up for the fact that it’s you._

The thoughts start swirling so thick in his brain that he feels like he’s choking by the time dinner ends, and fleeing up to Mike’s suite is a much-needed escape. Here, at least, Will doesn’t feel so stared-at, so disapproved of. At least up here it’s just him and Mike, and their little kitten, who’s playing with a plastic action figure she knocked down when they enter. She doesn’t seem perturbed to be suddenly deprived of her pile of siblings. Will wonders if she’ll get lonely in the middle of the night and start mewing at their door. He wonders if _he’ll_ get lonely - this is his first night not sleeping in a room full of bunk beds, listening to the distant whispered conversations and even breaths of his strange siblings. But then, he realizes, he’s being stupid - he won’t be sleeping alone, he’ll be with Mike.

Mike closes the french doors to his suite behind them, and locks them for good measure. He then draws curtains over the glass panels in the doors - a quiet but clear _fuck off_ to anyone who might approach.

This is the second time Will has been in Mike’s suite. The first time was to settle the cat in, earlier when they first arrived at the Wheeler house. Although, it’s big enough that Will almost hesitates to call it a house. Is it big enough to be a mansion? He’s not sure. Four stories including basement, with a wing on either side and plenty of large rooms with cathedral ceilings in the center of the house, perfect for hosting large gatherings. They live in what Mike called The Snobby Part of Town; there’s a golf course less than a mile away, and houses are widely spaced here. Not lined up in close little rows like in Will’s childhood memories of suburbia, but each set back on a long driveway, with a little bit of land to buffer each house from its neighbor. Trees and bushes line the fences, making for a softer, greener backdrop. The lawns are lush, the gardens neat, full of blooms and honeybees. The Wheeler house is white with dark green shutters and brick accents, backed by towering trees that don’t look native to this climate, and surrounded by round bushes. The interior isn’t as stark as Will was expecting; it’s imposing, to be sure, and opulent, but far from the black-marble-and-sharp-angles sleekness that he had pictured. There’s nothing modern about it. It’s full of wallpaper and wooden paneling, with glossy wood floors and fluffy brown carpet. From inside, most of the ground-level windows are dappled green with those bushes, screening them from curious passers-by. Most of the upstairs curtains are closed for the same reason. 

When Mike and Will arrived home, three intrepid reporters were camped out on the curb, ready to ask a lot of questions, trying to get a look at the cat and at Will’s face, only stopping when Mike rolled shut the wrought iron gate in their faces. Even then, when Will glanced back, he could still see the cameras snapping away as he and Mike hurried up the drive.

Mike wanted to sneak Rocky up to his suite before anyone noticed her, but they were making such a racket, trying to haul all the cat equipment up the grand, sweeping mahogany staircase, that they drew the attention of Mrs. Wheeler at once.

Her eyes landed on the mewing cat carrier and she put her hands on her hips, sighing. Then she tossed a hand, as if to say, _let’s have it._ “All right,” she said, “Let’s see.”

Contrary to Will’s expectation, Karen adores the kitten. She insisted on holding her and petting her, telling her how pretty and wonderful she was. Holly, of course, wanted a turn, and refused to give her back until Mike pointed out that it was _Will’s_ cat, not hers. And Ted, perhaps feeling left out, eventually wandered over to let Rocky bat at his wiggling fingers. He’s definitely not overjoyed to have an animal living in his house, but he hasn’t said much about it, either - just, “Mike, make sure it stays in your suite. I don’t want fur everywhere, Mrs. Gillespe is allergic. You know she’s always visiting. I don’t want her to be allergic to our whole house.” 

And while the little furball was sociable enough with everyone, accepting pets and sniffing hands, it’s already clear that she’s actually Mike’s cat. And even though he’s a self-professed dog lover - he said so himself when they adopted her - it’s clear that he already loves this little kitten. She totters over to him more often than not, flopping down in his lap to observe the rest of the room, kneading the knee of his jeans. Or she’ll climb up his shirt with her sharp little claws to sit on his shoulder, and Mike will coo and exclaim over her, and scratch behind her ears, and drop kisses on the top of her warm, furry head. Will doesn’t mind. Well, he’s a little jealous of the kisses. But he gets plenty of time with the kitten, and he certainly doesn’t mind watching Mike fawn over her.

When they first gathered up the kitten and carried her up the stairs to Mike’s suite, Will was a little surprised by how much it felt like the rest of the house. It didn’t feel like Mike. It was too impersonal, too clean - like the rest of the house, it looked a lot like a magazine. Now, as they pass through his living room and say hello to the ball of mischief, Mike opens a door that Will hasn’t seen before - and all at once Will understands. Because _this_ feels like Mike. It’s as if he squirreled it all away, pushed all of his personality into his bedroom and shut the door. Like he’s hiding it away, hiding _himself_ away in this one little space, where it’s safe. 

Mike’s bedroom has big, tall, rich-person windows that look out on the city lights. The Snobby Part of Town sits on a hill, so the glittering map of yellow window lights, red taillights and green traffic lights is easily visible down below, lustrous in the hazy late-dusk light. There’s a queen-sized bed on one wall, unmade, and clutter everywhere - so different from the pristine austerity of the rest of the house. 

“Bathroom’s through that door, closet’s right next to it,” Mike says, dropping his wallet unceremoniously onto his bedside table. Rocky wanders in after them on clumsy kitten legs, curious about the newly opened door, and quickly gets lost under the bed. “I think I finally convinced our maid that she doesn’t need to clean in here, so we shouldn’t have to worry about anyone coming in. The door locks.” 

Will wanders around as Mike talks. There’s a large desk in one corner, with two computer monitors idling in their colorful screensavers, and high stacks of books and notebooks crowding the surface of the desk. Sweaters are tossed over the back of the desk chair. Several bookshelves are stuffed with books, movie cases, odds and ends, and a few old toys and keepsakes that Mike apparently couldn’t bear to part with after childhood. A plastic dinosaur, a science fair trophy. The walls are thick with posters, paintings, photos, and random bits of memorabilia - except for one patch of conspicuously blank wall across from the bed, which Will wonders about until Mike picks up a small remote from the mess on his bedside table. 

“Wanna watch something?” 

A projector near the ceiling blinks to life, and suddenly the blank wall is shimmering with a welcome screen, options scrolling past - TV channels, streaming services, movies.

* * *

Will thinks they spend more time deciding what to watch then they do actually watching it, but eventually they settle on one of Mike’s favorite movies - an epic fantasy. They watch through Part One - apparently there are six whole movies in the series - before Mike starts yawning.

“Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t sleep much last night.”

Will borrows some of Mike’s pajamas, since they forgot he doesn’t exactly have any of his own clothes except what he was wearing today. They get distracted playing with Rocky for a while, until she gets sleepy and curls up in the corner of Mike’s couch in his living room, which has been re-dubbed Rocky’s Room. They’ve closed off the other doors, so that she can only get into trouble in here, where there’s relatively little trouble she can get into - theoretically. She has her litter box and her food and water, and nothing particularly breakable that she could knock down on herself.

They brush their teeth and wash their faces in Mike’s beige-tiled bathroom, and get some water before bed. It’s a fizzy, flavored water - “Rich people water,” Mike rolls his eyes as he pulls them from his mini-fridge - but apparently there’s no sugar or anything, so they can have it after they’ve already brushed their teeth. Mike chooses pomegranate and Will chooses strawberry.

It’s the closed bedroom door that does it. If Mike had left the door cracked open for the kitten to get in, Will wouldn’t have thought anything of it - but he closed it. And that closed door told Will everything he needs to know. He’s been a little nervous this whole time, as they got pajamas on, brushed their teeth, got water. Now, Will take a big gulp of fizzy, strawberry-flavored water and feels a flicker of excitement.

 _Okay,_ he thinks to himself, almost coaching himself, _He’s going to take you to bed now._

He’s nervous, yes. But as the seconds tick by and the time has almost come, he finds that he’s looking forward to it. There’s a little flutter in his stomach, a delicious nervous tightness low in his abdomen, the tension slowly turning to heat the more he thinks about it. He thinks about Mike’s big hands and his rumpled, wavy black hair, which has gone fluffy as the day comes to an end and it escapes its styling. Mike’s warm, deep brown eyes and his cute freckles and the way he smirks when he’s being a little shit and he knows it. 

Will thinks he knows how this is going to go down. They’ve gotten ready for bed, they’ve said goodnight to Rocky Road and made sure she’s set up for the night, they’ve closed and locked the bedroom door behind them. And now they’ll turn off the lights - or maybe not, maybe Mike likes to watch what’s happening in full light - and Mike will take Will by the hand and pull him gently towards the bed. He’ll kiss Will - fully, _finally._ Lips and teeth and tongues. He’ll pull Will down into bed and slide Will’s pajamas off again, taking a good look at his Match for the first time - all of him. And Will will get to see the approval in those dark eyes, the hunger - he’ll get to see that Mike likes him as he is, as average and human as he is. (He hopes.) Maybe - 

Will’s breath hitches as he walks, face down, head in the clouds. Mike mistakes it for a sound of concern and glances over his shoulder. 

“You okay?” he says, and Will automatically says, “Yeah,” but he’s not even fully sure what Mike just asked. His mind is elsewhere. 

Maybe Mike will touch him. 

Will doesn’t mind giving. Not for Mike. If Will’s partner had been someone unkind, or distasteful, this would have been a chore. But _Mike?_ Oh, no, Will doesn’t mind the idea of giving Mike pleasure. He could impress him, maybe, by bobbing down and taking Mike in his mouth without having to be told. Sucking. Summoning up a flood of saliva to make the process slick and effortless. Feeling out the shape with his tongue, seeing how far he can go. He’s fantasized about it before, usually in the middle of the night after the other Matches were gossiping about their partners’ kinks and pre-uploaded requests. His insides clench with a spike of arousal at the thought. Yes, he’d happily suck Mike off, touch him, let Mike fuck him if he wants. But maybe, just maybe, Mike will touch him. Kind, gentle Mike, who says _please_ and _thank you_ to drivers and cleaning staff, who wanted Will to help plan their wedding, who has never once given Will an order or shoved him around. Even though that’s what he was built for. Even though he’s a Match. Maybe Mike will touch him. Maybe he’ll finish sucking Mike off and Mike will pull him up for a kiss with a groan - “C’mere...” - and he’ll reach down and take Will in his own hand to make him feel good in return.

No one has ever touched Will like that before. For obvious reasons, the Matches weren’t allowed to sleep together. And anyway, it would have been weird - they were like siblings. But now, Will is going soft-kneed and trembling at the idea of Mike, _his_ Mike, his husband, wrapping a hand around him and squeezing, stroking. Slipping a finger further back and breaching the pucker of skin to push inside. Will shivers. He’s giving himself a hard-on, but thankfully they’ve already reached the bed, so there’s no huge reason to conceal it. It won’t be long now.

But Mike turns off the lights, leaving the room in the soft glow of the projector, and gets into bed, and they continue watching Part Two of the fantasy. And Mike does nothing more than nudge their shoulders together a little. He doesn’t pull Will to him, he doesn’t take off his shirt or send Will a suggestive little smile. Not so much as a propositioning hand on Will’s thigh.

Will glances at him. _He’s been waiting since the Meeting Room,_ he thinks, _Does he not want to?_ Maybe Mike doesn’t like sex. Or maybe he just doesn’t want Will. But doesn’t he? Why wouldn’t he? Will is _his_ , in every sense of the word. 

The thing is, Will could have sworn he was picking up... signals. He caught Mike glancing at his chest a few times over the day - and once, when Will leaned down to examine something in the pet store, he thought he saw Mike staring at his ass. It could have been his imagination, but there have been other moments too. Moments where Mike glanced at Will’s lips, or where Will leaned into his space and Mike leaned right back, propping each other up. Since that first hour in the Meeting Room, they’ve had little trouble getting into each other’s personal bubble. They seem to just... fit. Mike moves in a way that’s casual, familiar, but respectful - never pushing it if Will takes a step back for some air. But Mike has no problem touching him. So why is he so shy now? Doesn’t he know Will is his? Doesn’t he want him?

 _Well,_ Will decides, staring through the battle that’s happening onscreen, _I guess there’s one way to find out._

Will scoots up from his slouch, turning a little, and the motion gets Mike’s attention. He glances away from the screen to find Will looking at him, and with his pulse wobbling through him, Will takes the opportunity to glance down at Mike’s mouth. He moves, just a half an inch - a wordless invitation. _Kiss?_ And then, when Mike doesn’t pull away, he drifts in closer.

He can see Mike’s throat move in a swallow. “You don’t have to do that,” he says, his voice scratchy. They’re close enough that Will can feel a whisper of warmth against his cheek from Mike’s words. Mike hasn’t moved in - but he’s not pulling away, either.

“I know,” Will murmurs, and tries again - and he _almost_ gets there, but this time Mike does stop him. Just a hand on his shoulder, the light touch guiding him back an inch, and Will tries not to feel rejected.

Mike is shaking his head. “No, really. You don’t have to do anything just because you’re...”

The little flush of rejection eases as Will starts to understand. Is that what Mike thinks? That Will is only doing this out of obligation, that he doesn’t want Mike? Does he not know how much Will wants this, needs this?

Will looks at him, incredulous, and then shakes his head with a little snort. “You know,” he starts quietly. In the background, the movie plays on, and the shifting colors of the screen flicker over the room. “I spent three months worried about who my partner was going to be. I kept wondering, you know...” He shrugs a little uncomfortably, looking away. “Would I end up with a good person, or would they just...?” 

This all sounds bad, and he’s been taught over and over not to say things like this. So he switches tracks, skirting over the worst of what he’s thinking. 

“I was worried maybe it would be someone sixty years old, or some arrogant douchebag -” _or that I’d just be a living prop to them, to be used and then ignored._

“Oof,” Mike says into the silence. “Low bar.” 

Will chuckles. “No, that’s not - well. I mean, yeah. But that’s not what I -” He struggles, gesturing, and then sighs and turns to face Mike more fully. “I just mean, you’re not bad.” 

“Thanks.” Mike’s brows scrunch up in a playful expression of mock-confusion. “I think?” Then he gets serious. “You’re not too bad either.” 

“Yeah?” Will mumbles. 

“Yeah.” 

Will is leaning in again. Slowly, questioningly. He’s been waiting for this for three months, trying to imagine it, aching for the physical touch, and now that he’s here... now that he knows his partner is someone kind, and considerate, and a big dork, and really very attractive... Will wants this kiss, and he thinks Mike wants it too, and damned if he isn’t going to get it. In fact, he wants _so much_ more than a kiss, but for now -

Will closes in again, and this time Mike doesn’t resist. In fact, this time, he pushes up to meet him. And when Will ghosts his lips over Mike’s, Mike finally takes Will’s head in his hands and draws him in, draws him closer, one hand sliding down to his side to brace him. It’s wonderful. Imperfect and a little awkward as they feel each other out, find a rhythm with each other. The pressure, the physical touch is blood-hot, concrete, and alive with heartbeats and twitching fingers. Mike tastes like sharp spearmint toothpaste, and his skin still smells like the face soap they both used. Clean and pleasant, almost comforting. 

The movements of his jaw scatter Will’s intelligent thoughts to the wind. He works Will’s mouth open, Will’s own jaw going slack as Mike runs a stove-hot, slick tongue along Will’s lower lip. It ignites a ticklish burst of sensitivity in his lip and all along his jaw, and Will squirms, realizing that his pajama pants are beginning to tent. He desperately wants Mike to bite down on that lip that he just sensitized, but Mike is endearingly, infuriatingly methodical. Unhurried. Gentle.

Impatient, Will shoves into the physical contact before remembering that he’s not supposed to be demanding. But Mike doesn’t even seem to mind - he just gives a soft grunt and lets Will press against him. Will’s glasses are getting knocked askew, digging into his cheek, so with one hand he pulls them up and off his face, depositing them somewhere on the bedside table without looking. He still wants that bite, and he considers nipping at Mike’s lip to let him know it’s okay, but he doesn’t want to push this.

That self control lasts for approximately thirty seconds before Will swings a leg over Mike’s lap to straddle him. His back was getting sore anyway, twisted like that to face each other. And he wants to let Mike know that it’s okay to go further, that he doesn’t mind if Mike wants to do more than just kissing. That Will wants it, even.

But Mike grips his hips when Will settles into place, the tip of his nose tracing along Will’s jaw as he half-whispers, “Whoa, hey... We’re not in a rush.”

 _But I am,_ Will thinks. He doesn’t know how to explain the ache in his bones that has to do with much more than desire, but he can tell that Mike won’t let this continue without some sort of explanation, either. So he does his best.

“You know -” His voice is hoarse and he clears his throat. He’s stupidly emotional, all at once, and he doesn’t even know why. “You know I haven’t really touched another person in three months, right? I mean, they’d do medical checkups and stuff, but... that was about it. Not even a _hug._ ” His voice cracks a little, and silently he growls at himself, _get a fucking grip, William, come on_. “Ever. I just...” His arms move forward and lapse back. “I just wanna be close to you. For a second.” 

Mike stares up at him with those deep eyes, which look black in the dim light, looking stricken. Suddenly his arms snake around Will’s ribs, up his shoulders, and he squeezes Will to him. Will gives a reverse-gasp as the air is pressed from his lungs, and he slumps into the embrace. Mike’s face is pushed into the crook of Will’s neck and Will can feel the hot, damp jet of breath every few seconds. He lets his own face fall into his partner’s hair and just breathes, breathes, one hand locked around the opposite wrist so that Mike can’t pull away. He can’t, not now. Not when Will _finally_ has this. The solid and _real_ warmth of human body heat, the pressure, the rise and fall of his partner’s breath like waves on a shore, the touch. The simple sensation of being held by another person prods at each and every one of the neurons in his brainstem, triggering every one of his animal instincts to nuzzle and nest and protect. Will may not have been born, but he is still flesh and blood. He’s still made of the same starstuff as everyone else; calcium in his bones and iron in his blood. The sequence of letters in his DNA are derived from the same evolutionary path as everyone else on Earth. And now he’s being held, _really_ held, for the first time, and the relief and rightness is almost painful.

He doesn’t realize just how close to the surface his emotions are until his lungs give a soft little sob, a small heave in-out, and he sniffs, realizing that his nose has gone hot and tingly. Shit, is he _crying_? Well, that’s embarrassing. Time to put a lock on that real quick. But he can’t. He tries freezing his lungs, but they jolt anyway, making it worse, and all he can do is push his face into Mike’s hair and hope he doesn’t notice.

But of course he notices.

Mike is trying to lean back so he can see Will’s face, and Will is twisting his face away. He doesn’t want to be seen like this, when he’s not even sure what this overflow of emotion is.

“Hey,” Mike is saying softly, still trying to catch his eye. “You okay? What’s up?”

A tear breaks free of Will’s lower lash line and he wipes it away with a wet smile and a sniff. “Sorry.” The smile was unexpected. Is he not sad? Usually if he breaks down like this it’s late at night under his covers, drowning in a deep and unsettling flood of unplaceable grief. Something to do with the world, he thinks, and his place in it. But that’s not what he’s feeling now.

Mike presses. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” Another smile. “I’m -” He can’t say everything, doesn’t know how and doesn’t know if he’d want to spill his soul out onto the bed like that even if he did know how, so he says the first part that comes to mind. “I am so fucking glad to be out of there.” 

Mike breathes it out as if it’s some monumental recognition, some epiphany. “Oh.” And then he’s shaking his head, pulling Will to him, settling them more comfortably against the backrest of pillows. “Shit, Will. C’mere.”

They’re back to kissing, somehow, with Will’s arms wrapped around Mike’s neck and shoulders and Mike’s squeezed around Will’s ribs. Will’s knees splayed on either side of Mike’s hips. The buzzing undercurrent of desire is gone, now, but Will doesn’t miss it. They can have sex some other night, if Mike wants. And he thinks for now, just being _held_ like that - that simple, basic, emotional human connection - was more fulfilling than sex ever would have been.

Somehow, they progress to lying down in bed, kissing lazily, legs all tangled up. Then they watch the movie for a bit, half-awake, and every once in a while one of them will nuzzle in for another long kiss.

Will wakes up sometime in the early hours of the night. The movie played itself through, sometime after they fell asleep, and now the projector plays the menu screen on a loop, volume muted. Something is squeaking mournfully at the door.

Will gently removes himself from the arm draped over his waist - making Mike mumble sleepily in protest - and feels his way across the room, opening the door. Rocky trills at him. He scoops her up, her little body warm and purring as he carries her to the bed, and climbs back under the blankets, dumping her in the space behind his knees. Mike reaches out in his sleep, finding the warmth and weight of Will’s body and pulling him to his chest again, sighing. Rocky climbs over both of them for a few minutes, exploring, and then goes back to the nook behind Will’s knees and curls up. Will falls asleep again within minutes.


	4. Parental Figures

“Are you new in the house?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

The woman takes another look at Will. She’s barely shorter than him, with wispy brown hair twisted back in a knot and brown eyes. Their coloring is similar; she could be Will’s mother. In fact, they have the same shape of nose, same soft jaw. But Matches don’t have mothers. Do they?

 _Do I remember my mother?_ Will wonders, digging into his childhood memories. He searches for a face, a name, a voice, anything, and comes up blank. There’s only a vague, generic presence - the idea of a mother rather than the reality of one.

They’re in the kitchens, in the basement of the house. Windows along the ceiling let in a warm, diffused scatter of afternoon light. This kitchen isn’t like the kitchens they ran through at Perfect Match; this kitchen is old. It’s all wood and ceramic tile. The state-of-the-art appliances stand out like sore thumbs. Will is still breathing a little hard, and the perpetrator is scurrying around their feet. Will had to chase Rocky halfway to hell and back before she finally stopped in the kitchens - an area Will had never visited before. He doesn’t usually stray far from their suite, especially on days when Mike is off at “work” with his parents. When he skidded to a halt, breathless, and scooped up his errant charge by the ruff of her neck, the other presence in the room startled him.

Her name is Joyce Hopper, and she’s a cook for the Wheelers. That’s what he learned when she introduced herself, apologizing for giving him a scare.

Now, she gestures at the kitten at their feet. “Pet sitter?”

“What? Oh -” She thinks he’s a staff member, because of his simple clothes. Mike’s (too large) jeans, Mike’s black tee shirt. They haven’t gone shopping yet, so he’s been wearing his partner’s clothes. “No, actually, I - know Mike.”

“Oh.” She picks up a vegetable scrubber and holds it out toward him. “Well, good, if you’re not on the clock you can give me a hand, then.”

“Sure.”

He takes the brush, then hesitates, putting it down to wash his hands. It’s only as he’s starting to scrub the first carrot she hands him that he realizes: that was a test. The sharp glimmer in her eye gave it away. She was seeing if he would accept or not.

He doesn’t comment on it.

“You look about my daughter’s age,” she says, standing a couple feet from him at the long sink under the windows, scrubbing potatoes. “She’s friends with Mike too. Maybe you know her. She’s finishing up her degree at IUE. Did you go there?” 

Will shakes his head. 

“That’s why I thought maybe you were staff. Tuition wasn’t a walk in the park. Me working here helps her pay for it. Did you have to take out loans?” 

“Oh, I... Didn’t do college, actually.” 

He expects confusion or disapproval, but Joyce just nods approvingly and says, “You know, it’s not everyone’s path. And it’s certainly not everyone’s path straight out of high school. I mean, you’re _babies_ after high school -” She palms his shoulder apologetically - “Sorry, but you’re _babies._ How does anyone expect you to know what you want to do with your life?” 

“Yeah, it seems pretty dumb.” He says it like he’s already thought this over a lot, but truth be told, Will has never had reason or opportunity to reflect on that. 

Joyce goes on, “Do you think you’ll go to college sometime later, or is that not really on your radar?” 

“I dunno,” he says in surprise. 

He wasn’t aware that was an option for him. _Is_ it an option for him? Matches don’t usually go to school after they meet their partner. All the information their partner needed them to have is already in their brains, so what’s the point? Unless it’s a special case, as with a partner who wanted to go to college and wanted company or a study partner, so they sign their Match up with them. But Will has never heard of a Match going on their own. But now that he’s thinking about it...

“I think I’d like to. Maybe. Someday.” 

“Any idea what you’d like to study?” 

He shakes his head with an embarrassed shrug. God, he really is a half-baked adult. He doesn’t even know what he wants to do with his life, now that he has it.

“No? Well, no worries, that’s what life is for, yeah? You just figure things out as you go along and -” 

“I think art studies.” 

He watches her expression. He’s scanning for a reaction, and her smile is encouraging. “Oh, that’s fun! You’re an artist?” 

He hesitates, then squares his shoulders. “Yeah. I am.”

Because, after all, he makes art. He does art. Ergo, Will is an artist. 

He feels a glow of pride at that. It may be the first real part of his identity that didn’t come word-for-word from paperwork.

“That’s wonderful. I wish I was that creative.”

They work in silence for a few minutes, but it’s comfortable silence. They finish scrubbing down the vegetables and start peeling them, and they’re most of the way through the task when Will notices her watching his hands. He glances down - is he doing something wrong?

She sees his glance and points. “I was just looking at your ring there.” 

“Oh, yeah.” He twists it off and offers it, and she takes a look. “Promise ring?” she guesses, handing it back, and he shakes his head a little bashfully. 

“Wedding.” 

Her jaw drops in an exaggerated mom-expression. “No!” 

“Yeah.” 

“When?” 

“Uh, couple days ago?” He thinks. “Yeah.”

Another shocked gesture. “Shouldn’t you be on honeymoon?” 

“I dunno.” He tosses off a shrug - that hadn’t occurred to him. He supposes Matches don’t get honeymoons. “His parents kind of paid for it, so... I guess nobody wanted to ask them to pay extra for travel and stuff.” 

“Huh.” 

It’s close enough to the truth; she accepts it. They transfer the vegetables to a cutting board and start chopping. Will is extra careful with the knife she offers him. His fine motor control usually has no trouble, but he hasn’t built up muscle memory with certain things yet. If he’s not careful he might end up chopping his finger instead of the celery.

Joyce sends him a sly smile, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “So, who’s the lucky guy?” 

Will laughs a little. “You know, I think you might know him.”

Her head tilts, and then her eyes widen. “Mike?” 

“Yeah.” 

_“Mike?”_

“Yeah...?” 

“Good for you!” She hits him gently on the chest with her dishtowel. “ _Good_ for you. He’s a good ‘un.” 

He chuckles again. It’s easy to laugh around her; he decides he likes her. She’s good. Sometimes Will feels like he has an intuition about people - he can just tell that some people are good. It was like that with Mike. And it’s like that with Joyce Hopper. 

“Yeah, I know.” 

She’s back to chopping, a little smile on her face. After a moment she looks thoughtful, and glances back at him. “When did you meet? I didn’t hear a whole lot about him meeting anybody.” She sweeps the cutting board off the counter and carries it to the stove, tilting the vegetables into a pot in a rumble-tumble of carrots and celery and potatoes. “Although,” she says through the steam, “I’m not surprised. He used to be such a chatty kid, you know? Never could get a word in edgewise. Sweet, though. Sweet kid. But the past few years, he hasn’t told any of his plans to a soul. Never know what he’s up to. Probably because his parents would always discourage him. Oregano, please?” 

Will finds the correct tiny glass jar from the rack and hands it over. She takes it, opens it, closes it, and hands it back. 

“Oregano, dear. That’s parsley.” 

“Oh.” He tries again, offering in explanation: “I didn’t take many cooking classes.” 

Apparently he chose wisely this time; she shakes a healthy measure of herbs into the mix. 

“So, how did you two meet? Online?” 

Will hesitates. It would be easy to say yes. But for some reason, he doesn’t want to lie to this woman. She seems warm and motherly, and kind, and genuinely interested in this stranger she just met. And some of her expressiveness reminds him of Mike. The beat of silence has gone on too long, and she glances up, sensing his discomfort. 

“Um, no.” So that he doesn’t have to meet her eye while he says it, Will plucks his glasses from his face and wipes the steam from them on the tail of his shirt. The kitchen is so warm and humid they were starting to fog up. “He and his parents actually just picked me up from headquarters a few days ago.” 

It’s innocuous enough, at surface level. Better than saying, _Oh, no, you see, I’m actually not a real person._

“Headquarters?” she echoes absently. 

He can see the exact moment when she realizes, even with his glasses off. Her hands go still. He wonders if she’s weirded out by Matches - some people apparently are. Some people think they’re creepy, like clowns, or like too-realistic-but-not-quite-realistic-enough androids. Almost human, but not quite. Not enough. Maybe she’s realizing that she’s been talking to a Match all this time and her stomach is turning.

Rocky is squeaking at his feet, wanting attention. He gladly takes the opportunity to pick her up, singing, “Miss Rocksterooo, what is wrong? Did you get lonely down there, little love?”

Joyce is back to work, her hands moving again. Then all at once, her hand squeezes over Will’s shoulder. His head jerks to look at her, afraid she’s angry, but instead he finds a startling amount of empathy in her eyes.

“Is he good to you?”

“What?”

She rounds her eyes, enunciating. “Is he good to you?”

It’s an odd question to ask a Match. It’s not the kind of question you’re _supposed_ to ask a Match. And for a moment, Will sends her an automatic, fearful glare. Then he remembers that there aren’t any security cameras in the Wheeler house, no bugs always listening. At least... he doesn’t think so.

Will thinks of Mike involving him in decisions, Mike making him laugh, Mike letting him pick a pet. He thinks of Mike shielding Will’s face from paparazzi with his own jacket, cuddling him at night to keep him warm (Mike likes his room air conditioned and Will gets cold easily), never so much as touching him without permission.

“He is.”

Joyce searches his eyes, and then lets go. She’s back to stirring, like nothing happened. “I thought so. Have you talked to Nancy? Has she told you about...?”

“Mike’s big sister?” Will says, a little thrown off by what just happened.

That answers the question for her. She hums, “Hmm.”

“Why? Should I?”

“No,” Joyce is quick to say. “No, I’m sure she’ll contact you if she needs you.”

Rocky is trying to wriggle out of his arms, but Will is too confused to focus on her. “Why would she need me?”

Joyce makes a noise in her throat, and just like that, Will knows she’s about to lie. Nobody waffles like that unless they’re buying themselves half a second to think up a good half-truth. “She’s an investigative reporter,” she says lightly, “She’s always looking for good stories. Maybe her little brother’s wedding would be of interest to her.”

Will keeps his thoughts to himself as he puts Rocky down and washes his hands again, getting the cat fur off. He helps Joyce pull a loaf of bread from a bread machine, and he lets her think he didn’t notice anything strange. But inside, he’s teeming with curiosity. Something is going on in this house that he’s not privy to. And just maybe, he’ll find out what it is.

* * *

Here’s the rub.

Mike has been plotting his escape for months. If he’s being honest about it, he’s been planning this for years. It’s just, he had to wait until he graduated college, or his parents would have stopped paying tuition partway through, and what then? But now that he’s done with school, he’s free.

Without his parents’ blessing to move away - which it looks as if he’s never going to get - he’ll most certainly lose their money. Which is good, he wanted that. He doesn’t want their life, doesn’t want to end up like them. But it means he’ll quite abruptly find himself a working-class citizen; possibly even minimum-wage. Which, in this shitty economy, becomes a problem when you’re trying to feed yourself, much less _two_ people.

Mike was willing to half-starve, or live somewhere grungy or vaguely unsafe, if only it meant gaining his freedom. 

But Will... well, Will throws a small wrench in that.

Because Mike was more than fine with the idea of throwing himself into financial hardship - in fact, deep down, he almost feels that he deserves it. Like it’s _all_ he deserves, after nearly a quarter century of being a spoiled brat. Mike deserves the long work hours, the shitty apartment, the crappy food and aching bones, the panic over a dental copay. It’s almost become a type of catharsis in his mind, something painful but cleansing. Hydrogen peroxide on an infection. Mike’s family’s lifestyle is a disease on society, and he knows it. He’s been stewing and raging over it for years, ever since he was a teenager and he started to understand what was going on in the wider world. Ever since he met El.

Mike deserves that punishment. But Will doesn’t. And moreover, Mike wouldn’t want to condemn _anyone_ to live like that, much less his own husband. Isn’t that why they need to _fix_ the economy? So _no one_ has to live like that? 

And furthermore, even if they could figure out the money problems, what kind of cruel trick is that? Hi, I know I’m utterly uninteresting and unworthy in every way, but you have to marry me, sorry, my mom said so. Now you have to be put up with being paraded around by my parents as a political pawn. Fun, right? Welcome to my life. Now, just as you’ve gotten settled after a huge life change, I’m going to just go ahead and uproot you again - straight into poverty. Surprise!

Will would hate him. And for good reason.

But how can they stay with Mike’s parents? If he spends too much longer with absolutely no control over his own life, he’s going to start needing some serious therapy. Anyway, he’s twenty three. Too much longer living with his parents and it’s going to start getting pathetic. He doesn’t want to still be here in fifteen years, or five, or one. And the longer he stays, the stronger the inertia will be. If he’s - if _they’re_ going to get out, it has to be soon.

He can’t think about it right now. Right now, they’re reliving one of Mike’s least-favorite childhood memories: clothes shopping. As much as Mike hasn’t minded, Will can’t keep borrowing his clothes forever.

Although, it’s a little more bearable with Will here.

It also helps that they’re not shopping for _Mike._ Mike despises fitting rooms. He hates the mirrors, he hates the well-meaning store employees rapping at the door and chirping at him, asking him if he wants a size larger or smaller, he hates the clothes. Did he mention that he hates the mirrors? Just being in these stores makes him tense up, a Pavlovian sulk darkening his expression. But without his mother hovering over his shoulder, telling him what to and what not to wear, and with Will leading them, it’s not so bad. 

They’ve been holding up different clothing items to each other - the most awful, ugly, or pretentious things they can find - and very seriously say, “This one?” It made them break down into laughter over shimmery, mother-of-pearl silk pants, a full-leather shirt, and a dress that looks like it’s made from the hides of illegally slaughtered teddy bears.

“Do you think I should get some formal wear?” Will says, flipping through pairs of dress pants that hang from a circular rack. 

They’ve already stopped at some more casual clothing stores for things like jeans, slacks, tees, button-ups (Will seems particularly fond of slightly oversized flannel), sweatshirts, sneakers, jackets, and pajamas. They mostly came in here to look at dress shoes, belts and watches, but then they got distracted by playing “What Ridiculous Stage Outfit Could You Build From These Clothes,” and now Will is eyeing a rack of blazers.

“Probably,” Mike sighs. “Maybe two or three outfits. But trust me, you’ll be getting more whether you want to or not. Expect my mother to swoop in and whisk you off for a suit fitting any day now.”

“Thanks for the heads up.” He pulls a tweed blazer from the rack. “Too academia?”

Mike makes an exaggerated _unno_ face and Will laughs. “I think it’s kind of nice,” Mike offers. “Does it have elbow patches?” He twists a sleeve. It does. “Try it.”

“I look like a gay professor of ancient history in a 1960s private school,” Will laughs, turning on the spot to model it. “See? With the glasses and hair and everything?”

“What makes it gay?”

“I’m in it?”

Mike snorts. “Get it.”

Will shrugs. Maybe disagreeing, maybe just seeing how the material feels on his shoulders. He looks thoughtful. “Hey, love? I mean - sorry. Where’d you go to college?”

Mike tries to keep his expression neutral. He doesn’t know how he feels about that. Will calling him “love.” It seems to be an automatic thing, maybe something programmed into him. It doesn’t sit right with Mike - the idea of Will being forced to call him that, as if he had any choice in the matter. Will doesn’t have to love him. And he shouldn’t have to pretend, either. But apparently Will has been picking up on Mike’s dislike of the pet name, because lately he’s been apologizing when it slips out, and that’s almost worse.

“Butler,” Mike answers evenly, choosing to skim over the pet name thing.

“That in town?”

“Mm-hmm.” 

“I don’t suppose you lived on-campus?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the P. “I was home. Same house, same room, same walls. Same as always.”

Will starts to peel off the jacket. “How was that?” he says suddenly. “College?”

“Fine, I guess. Majored in English, had a minor in Business. Three guesses who suggested _that._ It was pretty fun sometimes. The writing workshop classes were great. I guess I wasn’t very sociable, though. I have to go to enough parties as it is with my family, so I wasn’t really into the whole party scene. And most of my friends moved away after high school, so...” He shrugs. “We still play online. But I almost never see them. Haven’t for years.”

“Play what?”

“D&D.”

“Oh, wait, I know this one. It’s that big board game, right? It’s like Monopoly, it takes a long time to play. And it has wizards and dragons and stuff.” He clicks his fingers. “Like the movie that first night.”

Mike smiles in surprise. “Yeah! Do you play?”

“Never have. But I looked it up.”

“Why?”

“It was on your profile that you turned in to Perfect Match.”

Somehow, this hits Mike hard. He never really thought twice about that profile. It’s strange to think of Will in the facility, knowing things about Mike before Mike knew much about him, searching up one of Mike’s favorite things - maybe as an attempt to get to know him? Then he notices Will starting to put back the jacket, and he stops him with a touch. “No, you should get it.”

Will waves a hand - _nah -_ and replaces the jacket on its hanger. Mike has a feeling it’s because of the price tag. This is a fancy store - the shopping assistant drifting at their heels attests to that - so everything is priced about four times its worth. But it’s where Mike’s family has always gone for nice shoes and coats, so it’s where he brought Will. Force of habit, he supposes.

Will walks away towards a rainbow of dress shirts, apparently starting his mission to build two or three formal outfits, and while his back is turned, Mike grabs the tweed coat again and hands it to the assistant. She grins and taps the side of her nose. Mum’s the word.

When they get to the checkout counter, Mike digs out his wallet automatically before Will hip-bumps him aside with a loud throat clearing.

“Oh, right.”

A few days after Will got home - as soon as his ID card arrived in the mail - they went to the bank to open his own accounts. Savings, checking, credit. And on a sudden impulse, Mike dumped about a quarter of his secret savings money into Will’s savings account. If there’s an emergency, he might need it. He also heaped over half of his spending money into Will’s checking. It’s only fair. So, now, Will takes a card from his pocket and hands it over.

“We need to get you a wallet,” Mike muses. 

He had forgotten about that. They remembered a belt and sunglasses, but not a wallet.

Oh, well. Next time.

* * *

Mike’s knowledge of Will is... odd. Scattered. One moment it’s like he can read Will’s mind, and the next he’s surprised that Will likes hot sauce. 

It’s disconcerting. Partners are supposed to know everything about their Matches. Well, maybe not everything - and Mike did say he left some stuff up to chance, so he could get to know Will over time, but still. It’s strange, how extensive the “get to know you” period seems to be. Just how much did Mike leave up to chance?

On the other hand, it’s ridiculous to entertain the thought that Will wasn’t made specifically for Mike. They fit too well. They fill in for each other’s flaws and compliment each other’s strengths too well for Will to be the product of randomly generated algorithms. Mike writes, and Will does art. Mike is prone to talking a lot, and Will is a natural listener, and skilled at inserting an impactful comment here and there where it really matters. Mike trapped a wasp under a cup while Will hid several rooms away, and Will smashed a large spider with a notebook while Mike stood in the bathtub yelling, “Is it dead?” Mike is always too warm, and Will is always a little cold. And while Mike is a strategist, planning out schemes several steps long, Will is better at spur-of-the-moment thinking.

He’s probably just overreacting. Who cares that Mike doesn’t know everything about him? It’s what Will prefers, anyway. He thinks he'd feel horribly violated if somebody knew each and every little thought that went through his head. Mike doesn’t need to remember all the details of Will’s form. He remembers the things that Will _tells_ him, like his favorite band, and that he doesn’t like surprise hugs from behind because they startle him too much. And isn’t that better, in a way, than if Mike had memorized Will’s entire form?

* * *

Will is working on a pastel drawing when he meets the Party. Or rather, when they accidentally become aware of each other’s existence.

Mike is hunkered down on his side of the bed, with headphones on. He’s wearing a shirt but no pants - just underwear. It’s a fact that Will has been hyper aware of, somewhere in the back of his mind. He’s been hoping that’s a sign. Maybe once Mike gets done with today’s campaign, he’ll toss his tablet aside and pull Will over him, and finally, _finally_ palm the front of Will’s sweatpants and say, _“Got some time?”_

And maybe they’ll burrow under the covers - it’s so hot outside that Mike keeps the air conditioning blasting - and Mike will pull Will’s shirt over his head, and then his own. They’d grind together for a while - they’ve done that a couple times before, but no further. But maybe this time Mike will take Will’s wrist and guide it beseechingly towards his tented boxers. Will would take his time, getting acquainted with Mike’s shape and with his reactions. Does he like a twist of the wrist right near the top, like Will does? Is he curved?

For now, Will is working on an oil pastel still life. His reference is curled up in a fold of blanket between their legs; he just hopes she stays put until he can finish.

“No, no, no,” Mike is laughing, loudly. He always forgets how loud he’s being when he has headphones on. “Excuse me, ma’am, that is not a cantrip. You are out of spell slots, don’t think I haven’t been keeping track.”

Will can hear a muffled rebuttal through Mike’s headphones. On his tablet screen, which he’s extended into gaming mode and propped against his knees, a red haired girl is gesturing violently, clearly in opposition to this statement. Three other faces laugh along from their squares.

Will has heard a fair deal about the Party. They’re Mike’s friends from high school. They used to play together in person, but then after graduation everyone went their separate ways for college - “Everyone escaped except me,” Mike has said more than once, half joking and bitter.

Will is glossing in a pattern of fur, pressing hard to layer pigment onto the thick paper, when Mike shifts his weight, sitting up. For a moment, his tablet tilts off his legs and lands sideways on the mattress, facing Will. Mike scoops it up again in less than a second and opens his mouth to continue, but even Will can hear the sudden outburst of voices. Mike winces at the volume. Will looks at him curiously.

“They kind of saw you,” Mike says, sheepish. 

He turns off his headphones, tossing them aside, and the voices of the Party burst through the tablet, overlapping, crowing with various levels of shock, glee, and disbelief.

“Wait, who was _that?”_

“You have someone in your bed?”

“Who _was_ that?”

“There something you’re not telling us, Wheeler?”

“Mike has a booooy-frieeeend!”

“Let’s see him, c’mon!”

“Yeah, we wanna meet him!”

“How long has he _been_ there?”

Mike shakes his head at them, then turns to Will. “You don’t have to...”

“It’s okay.” Will wipes a hand over his face, hoping his skin isn’t shiny enough to be a beacon of Gondor, and scoots over. Mike repositions the tablet, bringing Will into the field of view, and more whoops break out. Will catches a glimpse of himself in their corner of the screen and realizes there’s a smudge of pastels right beside his nose, from touching his face.

Somebody wolf-whistles. It was the red haired girl. A curly haired guy cheerfully booms, “Well, hello, gorgeous.”

Flustered, Will flips them off. They laugh.

“This is Max,” Mike says, pointing to the red haired girl. “She’s our zoomer. Don’t ask. Guy with the curly hair and fancy CGI background is Dustin, he’s our bard.” Dustin gives a cheesy grin and waves, apparently from the base of an exploding volcano. “This is our ranger, Lucas.”

“Hey,” says the guy wearing a camo bandanna as a headband.

“Hey,” Will says back.

“And this is El. Our mage.”

El has a button nose and short, curly brown hair - for a moment, Will wonders if she’s related to Dustin. She nods graciously with a, “Hello.”

“Hi.”

“And this,” Mike says, slipping an arm around Will’s shoulder, “Is Will.”

Unexpectedly, Mike bends his head to push a kiss against Will’s neck. Maybe it’s a silent sign to the Party: _“This one’s mine.”_

Mike isn’t usually affectionate with Will in front of other people. He won’t reject affection in public, but he almost never initiates it, and Will isn’t big on PDA, either. Out and about, or with family, they’re usually constrained to hand-holding. They rarely even exchange an innocent peck on the lips or cheek. So Will is flustered even further when, in full view of the Party, he kisses up Will’s neck and jaw, nuzzling under his jaw before kissing him fully on the mouth, to obnoxious whoots from his friends. It lights up a glow in Will’s chest. He realizes that this is the first time he’s felt like Mike is... _proud_ of him. Not that he thinks Mike is ashamed of him or anything, but Mike doesn’t usually show Will off very much. Will always supposed it was just because Mike gets enough of that from his parents, and doesn’t want to treat Will the same way. But there was always an unacknowledged little fear, somewhere in Will’s chest, that Mike wasn’t proud to have him as a partner - no. Will forgot, for a moment, he isn’t a partner. To have him as a _Match_. 

And now, giggling as Mike pats his entire face with a hand, hamming it up for his friends - “He’s lovely. Isn’t he lovely?” - Will feels a ball of relief uncoiling in his belly that he didn’t know was there.

“Get off,” Will laughs, shoving him. “You’re smudging my glasses.”

The Party spends the next twenty minutes interrogating-slash-fawning-over Will. Thankfully they don’t ask a whole lot of questions about his past that he can’t answer with half-truths. Mike never said he was a Match, so Will doesn’t, either. They don’t mention the wedding; the Party keeps referring to them as boyfriends. And that’s fine. Will is happy to keep answering questions about favorite movies and whether or not Mike snores. He has a contingency plan for if the questions get too personal. 

When the Party starts asking how exactly they met, Will leans down and scoops up the sleeping kitten, making her give a startled, interrogative little _prrt?_ and holds her up to the camera. Cue five whole minutes of kitten worship. Mission success.

* * *

That feeling from the kitchen is back.

The feeling that there’s something going on that somebody doesn’t want Will to know.

Karen Wheeler is watching TV, curled up in an uncharacteristic slouch in the corner of her huge leather sofa. She’s chewing at a manicured thumbnail of one hand, and petting The Rocketeer with the other.

On the screen, Will glimpses coverage of a riot.

It only lasts for a second before she notices him standing in the doorway of the opulent living room and, quick as a flash, changes the channel to a weather report. “Oh, Will,” she says lightly. 

“I was just looking for my cat,” Will says. “She got out of the suite again. Little escape artist.” 

Karen stands, holding Rocky like a baby. “She’s here. She’s been keeping me company, but I suppose I’ll give her back if I must.” 

She transfers the limp, purring lump to Will, who places her on his shoulder. Rocky drapes herself around his neck and kneads painfully at his shoulder. 

“Don’t tell Ted,” Karen says, and winks, before sitting again - primly, this time, with her back straight and her ankles crossed. 

* * *

Mike is hunched over his desk, writing, when the door to their suite opens.

Will’s head lifts, like a bloodhound catching a scent. That’s odd. Nobody ever comes into their suite, except sometimes the maid, and that’s only when they’re not home.

Mike hears it too, and he watches the door, seeming unsurprised when a short girl with very curly, short hair walks in like she owns the place.

“Hey,” she says, and flops down at the foot of the bed a few feet from Will. She’s wearing a long, white cable sweater and leggings.

Her voice triggers Will’s memory. It’s the mage - El.

“You know, that key was for emergencies,” Mike says, not looking away from his screen. 

“I’m bored.”

“That’s not an emergency.”

“Speak for yourself. Wanna go out?”

As they talk, Will quietly clears out his search history from Mike’s tablet. He had been searching things up on the Net, and he clears away phrases like _can Matches attend college without a partner?_

_Can Matches attend college without their partner’s consent?_

_Cost of public college_

_Public colleges in Indiana_

_Art schools in Indiana_

_Best art schools_

_Online art schools_

_Cost of art school._

“No,” Mike says slowly, “I’m in the middle of a chapter, I think I can get it done today if I keep in a flow.”

El blows a raspberry at him.

Rocket appears from underneath the bed to attack El’s feet. She shuffles her shoes around, wiggling her toes until the kitten wiggles and pounces.

“Hi,” Will offers.

El meets his eyes. She looks him over for a moment before responding, and something about that gesture reminds him of Joyce Hopper. “Hi.”

“I thought you lived across the country.”

“Everyone else does,” El says, at the same time that Mike says, “Nah, me and her are pretty much the only ones left in this state.”

“Do _you_ wanna go out?”

It takes Will a second to realize she means him. He looks back and forth between her and Mike. “Uh.” Mike doesn’t look opposed to the idea. Will guesses there’s no reason he can’t. “Yeah. Why not.”

* * *

Shopping with El is different than shopping with Mike, or Mrs. Wheeler. Instead of calling a ride, they walk to a bus stop near the golf course and take the bus. Instead of heading downtown, to sleek shops in skyscrapers that you have to take an elevator to get to, they end up somewhere at the edge of the city, near the suburbs. El takes him into a shopping mall. It looks a little worse for the wear; apparently the Net has nearly run places like this out of business. But there are plenty of stores still open, and they mostly window shop, sipping on the fruit smoothies they bought from the food court. She shows him a “hidden gem” near the back corner of the mall: an arcade, deafening and blinding, with blinking and beeping machines wall-to-wall. It’s one of Will’s favorite places, he quickly decides.

He beats her at Pac Man, and she beats him at Dig Dug.

Then El learns that Will still doesn’t have a wallet. This leads her to interrogate him until she figures out what else he’s still lacking, and all at once, they’re on a scavenger hunt for what El calls “the essentials.” El does most of the actual shopping - “Don’t worry,” she says, “I’m an expert. Max taught me.” - but Will won’t let her pay. He has his bank account, now, and anyway, he gets the feeling that she’s a bit tight on money.

By the time they leave the mall and get on the bus again, they’re juggling shopping bags. Will now has a wallet, a basic touchscreen phone, earbuds, a backpack, his own cologne (he’s been using Mike’s), chap-stick, more art supplies, his own dice (“You should play with us!”), a bag of candy from the candy store (“Totally essential.”), and a small jumble of mostly-black bracelets (“Punk essentials.”). El, herself, wears a lot of bracelets, especially on her left wrist.

Their next stop is a thrift store.

“Not everyone can buy everything new,” she teases as she shops for clothes.

The thrift store is quiet, with generic in-store music playing over the speakers. Will holds most of the bags as she looks through rompers, blouses, and suspenders, occasionally holding something up for his opinion. Few people are around; it’s a quiet day in the Thrift Lot. One bored cashier texts at her station, occasionally popping her gum.

“So you knew Mike in high school?”

“Mm-hmm.” She holds up some ripped black jeans. 

“Nice. You grew up in Indiana then?”

She takes longer to inspect the jeans than necessary, as if thinking something over. “Not exactly. I’ve lived here since middle school, I guess.”

“Where were you born?”

“I... wasn’t,” she says carefully. She folds the jeans over her arm. “I was adopted when I was twelve.”

Will is confused, until all at once he thinks of how _he_ wasn’t born either. But that doesn’t make sense. “Are you... a Match?” 

She squeezes her lips together and does a little sideways nod. 

“ _Whose?_ ” 

_Twelve?_ He thinks, mind skipping like a record. _That doesn’t make sense, Matches aren’t ever children. The youngest Match you can make is 18 straight out of the box._

El hesitates for a long time, and then slowly she says, “My Pa... the person who ordered me, ordered me... illegally. I wasn’t from a company, I was...” 

“Fuck,” Will mutters, realizing where she’s going with this. Black market. Underground genetic engineering. It’s highly illegal, highly dangerous - for everyone involved. A lot can go very, very wrong. But, unfortunately, it’s also highly lucrative. 

She takes half a breath and says, “He was a doctor of theoretical physics called - Dr. Martin Brenner.” 

Will can tell it hurts her to say that name, and he wants to put an arm around her shoulder, tell her, _It’s okay, stop, you don’t have to say it._ But she seems to be on some sort of roll, speaking in a quiet monotone to her hands. 

“Hop - my dad - he’s a police chief. He wasn’t even in the department that’s supposed to stop that kind of stuff, but he was working on a different case - a missing person report, I think - and he started picking up clues. Except, they weren’t clues to find the person, they were clues to find me. He just didn’t know it. Until he found me.” She’s flipping through a rack of jeans, each metal hanger squealing painfully as she slides it down the bar one at a time.

“And your...?” 

“Brenner?” 

A nod. 

“Jail,” El says curtly. She sniffs, wipes her nose with the back of a hand, then laughs a rough, bitter laugh. “You know, he never actually gave me a name. Hop and Joyce were the ones that put Elenor on my paperwork when they adopted me. But when I was a kid I was Eleven.” 

“Like the number?” 

She wriggles a wide bracelet down her wrist, revealing a somewhat faded tattoo - two number 1s side by side. Will wants to vomit. 

“What happened to -?” 

“One through Ten?” She puts the bracelet back in place and shrugs. “I never asked.” 

There’s a long silence. What is there to say? Then Will’s mind retraces over something and he frowns. “Wait, you said Joyce. Do you mean Joyce Hopper?”

“You know her?”

“I help her out in the kitchens sometimes, yeah.” She starts to say something, but something is burning a hole in Will’s mind, and he has to ask, “Does Mike know about...?”

“Yeah. Actually, he found me before Hop did,” she says. “He found me the night I ran away. Hid me in the basement.” She chuckles. “Brought me Eggos from the kitchen.” 

Will is wide-eyed. He breathes, “You _ran?_ ” 

“I had to.” 

Will is floored. He can’t imagine being a kid and having the guts to run away from a situation like that - much less as a Match. And he can’t imagine that her partn... No. He was _not_ a partner. He can’t imagine that this Dr. Brenner bastard wanted her programmed with much inclination to act out. Rebelling like that must have taken an incredible amount of willpower. 

“That’s why I have trouble talking sometimes,” El says, matter-of-fact, as she returns to checking the size on a pair of shorts as if nothing ever happened. And Will realizes, with a sickening blast of fury, _He didn’t want her to talk._

“You can’t tell anyone,” she says, abruptly but just as matter-of-factly. 

“‘Course,” he says, and she pins him with her gaze. 

“I’m serious. As far as the world is concerned, my name is Jane Elenor Hopper, and I grew up in an abusive household in Kentucky and was rescued by child services and adopted by my parents. I’m not a Match.” 

“Okay.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Okay.” 

“I’m a real person.” Her venom vanishes all at once as she realizes what she said, and she cringes. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay -” 

“No, it’s not. Don’t say it’s okay when it’s not. You don’t have to do that just because they told you to.” 

_Okay,_ he almost says, and bites his tongue. 

* * *

They don’t talk much on the bus ride home, mostly because Will is deep in thought.

It’s no wonder Mike has been so hesitant to ask Will for anything. No wonder he never asks for sex, or even kisses. And it’s no fucking wonder he designed Will the way he did - _uppity, contentious_ \- if his best friend was once an illegal black-market Match, molded to be a living doll. Suddenly, everything is making so much more sense. 

Of course, it’s different. Regular Matches, _legal_ Matches made in companies, have safety regulations. Guidelines, rules. There are clauses built into their paperwork, legally binding agreements that state the The Partner will not knowing harm their Match, will not neglect their Match, will provide for their Match’s health and safety. Of course, there are plenty of battered Matches. It happens. It’s a fact of life. But you can have your Match taken away from you, legally, if people start to notice too many nasty visible bruises. There are fines for mistreatment. 

In development, their health and safety is an utmost priority; they’re monitored closely as they grow, and from the moment their test tubes are drained, they’re fed balanced, nutritious diets catered specifically to their needs. They have blankets and good clothes and company; they’re guarded by electric fences and security cameras and guards. Back at Perfect Match, Will used to gag at all that. He saw it only as extravagance, control - a big, expensive cage for pretty, expensive pets. But now, he feels a bizarre duality - a twisted kind of gratitude is sneaking in beside the distaste. Because at least he had that. At least he wasn’t grown in some definitely-not-up-to-code lab somewhere in a hidden warehouse, yanked roughly from an old biotube and tossed, coughing up phlegm, terrified, out into the world. 

When Will woke up, it was a gentle process. They kept him sedated until he was dry and his lungs were drained. He was dressed in a hospital gown and laid out on a cot with an IV drip in his arm, hydrating him while his body adjusted to the painful transition to consciousness. He had a bucket to cough into if he needed to hack up the last of the mucus in his lungs. One of his first _real_ memories is of a nurse in purple scrubs and a butterfly-printed mask, checking his joints, asking him if he could feel pressure on the pad of each finger. 

_“Nod yes if you can feel this. Or blink once for yes, two for no if your neck’s still pretty noodly. Okay, good. Now here? Good. Here. Here. You’re doing great, William.”_

It took him a couple tries to keep any food down - his stomach had never had to digest anything before - and the light hurt his eyes. He slept a lot, those first few days, but once his stomach settled and the dizziness faded, existence wasn’t such a curse. In fact it was enjoyable. He was glad to exist, curious about everything - always wanting to touch everything, because he wanted to feel all the textures that he had intellectual knowledge of but not tactile experience with. He was often scolded by nurses for getting out of bed before his legs were quite steady, opening cupboards, taking apart a TV remote to see what was inside, and if it would hurt to zap himself with the small batteries within. (It did.) 

He already had all his memories - well, “memories.” Logically, he knows that he didn’t exist a year ago. But as far as his brain is concerned, he was born twenty three years ago, grew up in some typical American suburb, crushed on a handsome actor, got sunburns, got colds, got birthday presents, played video games past his bedtime, saw movies in the local theater, graduated high school, all that jazz. And then there’s a vague, blank period, like amnesia, and then he woke up in a medical center and began his life as a Match in training. Emotionally, it was as if he had gone in for surgery, or been in some small car crash, and when he woke up, the gap in his memory was minimal. It didn’t bother him too much, except for those late nights when existential melancholy swept over him in great heaving waves, but he always figured that was just sort of a human thing. Everyone sometimes contemplates the world and gets sad about it. Maybe it’s a little harder, being a Match, because you don’t actually have a whole life to get used to the idea of an unfair world before you have to face it as a functioning adult. 

But he can’t fathom what it must have been like, being an illegal. Did they even bother to give her a childhood? Knowledge of the world? Did they give her an IV to keep her hydrated after she woke up, or a clean cot to doze on while she adjusted? Or did they just pull her from her synthetic amniotic fluid, cold and dripping with goop, with nothing but docile programming and an awful knowledge of what the doctor wanted from her?


	5. Quid Pro Quo

When Will gets back home from hanging out with El, he goes straight to Mike and pulls his desk chair back from the desk, with Mike in it - Mike apparently hasn’t moved, typing away all day - and climbs directly into Mike’s lap. He doesn’t even want attention that badly, he just wants to hug his partner. He doesn’t know how else to say _I am so fucking grateful for you, that you’re good, that you treat me like a partner and not like a prop._

Mike chuckles, completely unaware of the weight of Will’s thoughts, and pulls them both towards the desk on the rolling chair. He kisses Will’s neck and reaches around him, continuing to type as best he can with a Will in the way. “Hi, you.” 

“Hi, bug,” Will murmurs back, and then realizes with a blush that he’s never used that pet name aloud before. He’s been trying not to use them, at least aloud; _love_ always seems to make Mike flinch. Which is a little disheartening. But this one... This one he doesn’t seem to mind. It seems to give Mike a moment of pause - then he keeps typing. 

The clack of the keyboard, flowing and then pausing as Mike thinks, and then flowing again, is a steady background noise, and for a while Will is content to rest there with his thoughts. Every once in a while there’s a staccato _whack_ as Mike hits the backspace. He always hits the backspace like it owes him money. Will was poking fun at him about it yesterday.

“I talked to El today,” Will says at last. It sounds stupid - of course he talked to her, they were hanging out all day. 

Mike finishes his sentence, then pauses to listen. 

“I didn’t know she was...” 

It hangs in the air.

“Oh.” Mike types a few more words, as if giving himself time to think over how to respond. “Yeah.”

 _Yeah?_ Is that it? This is huge. There has to be more. But how is Will supposed to just open his mouth and ask, _“So, is that why we haven’t had sex yet?”_ But it seems rude to bring up bluntly like that, and anyway, what happened to El deserves more respect than that. It’s not something to treat lightly. It wouldn’t be right to walk away from that conversation and immediately say, _“Oh, so that’s why I’ve been starved for dick, huh?”_

The thought makes Will snort, pushing his face harder into Mike’s shoulder. The things his brain thinks up without his consent, sometimes, are baffling.

“What?” Mike says, and Will shakes his head.

“Did you tell her about me?” he says instead, sitting back a little to look Mike in the face, and Mike pauses in typing to roll his wrists.

“What d’you mean? Tell her what?”

“She knew I was a Match. I figured you told her.”

Mike shakes his head, looking bemused. “I didn’t mention it.”

“Huh.” 

Will wonders how she knew. But then again, like they say, it takes one to know one. Certain gestures or phrases are common among Matches, along with certain attitudes. He wonders what gave him away.

* * *

Will is sure, by now, that Mike wants him.

Will has woken up multiple times to find morning wood pressed firmly against his ass or thigh, Mike gets really into their makeout sessions that tend to happen fairly regularly in the evenings, and Will is ninety percent sure he overheard Mike jerking off in the shower, once. Not to mention he regularly catches Mike checking him out. And once - a few days after Will met El - Will half-woke in the middle of the night to find Mike grinding against Will’s thigh in his sleep, breathing hard. Will _almost_ reached into his own pajama pants and stroked himself in time to the sleepy thrusts, but before he could move, Mike woke himself up and pulled away, muttering, “Shit.” Will was about to roll over and say, _“It’s okay, wait,”_ but Mike was already rolling out of bed, slipping away to the bathroom to finish himself off. So Will pretended he had slept through the whole thing.

He knows Mike wants him. And now he knows why Mike hasn’t initiated yet. 

So, that part’s up to Will.

But he waits. His conversation with El is too fresh in his mind.

* * *

“It’s not _real_ writing, though,” Mike is saying. He’s hovering over Will’s shoulder as Will sits in Mike’s desk chair, having just finished reading through a short story. “It’s just fan fiction for these books I like.”

Mike seemed a little abashed about the idea from the start. It started because Will happened to stop behind Mike’s chair as he was typing, reading over his shoulder. Two minutes later and he was still there, reading along, until Mike sensed his presence and glanced back, and Will gestured at the screen with his coffee mug and said, “Can I read?”

Now, Will takes off his glasses to polish them. “Why does that not make it real?”

“Well it’s not original.” 

“Did you plagiarize it?”

“No, of course n-” 

“Then it’s original.” 

Mike makes a face and perches on the only part of the desk that’s not covered in books, notebooks, mugs, sticky notes, odds and ends, and a keyboard. “Well, okay, but it’s not a _book._ It’s not actually published.” 

“Do people read it?” 

“Well, some people, yeah.” 

“And anyone can access it?” 

“If they go looking, I guess.” 

“Sounds like it’s been published to me.”

Mike opens and closes his mouth, hitting a dead end, and Will grins, sensing victory.

“Well. What’d you think?” Mike says, pushing the conversation down a different path.

Will deadpans. “Oh, you know, I’m not a huge fan of science fiction, so I couldn’t really get into it.”

Mike’s expression turns suspicious. “Yes you are,” he says slowly, and Will’s stoic face cracks.

“Yeah, I loved it. I love how you describe the spaceship, like it has a personality. I think you said it sounds like it’s breathing at one point?”

“The ventilation system, right.”

“It’s like a big pet.”

The science fiction thing lingers in Will’s mind for a few minutes. The way Mike said it wasn’t certain, it was cautious - like he wasn’t _quite_ sure. But, shouldn’t he be sure? Shouldn't he know Will? He's his _Match._ It’s the same circle Will’s mind has been going in for weeks. Mike doesn’t know everything about him, and that’s fine. Will is getting used to it. The downside is, he’s a little _too_ used to it. It’s making him forget his place, forget what he is. Because if he and Mike are getting to know one another, like friends, like equals, it’s all too easy for Will to step out of line. 

He’s had to chastise himself, several times, for not acting enough like his partner’s Match. He’s not supposed to be explaining things to Mike, or talking at him for long hours about things that interest him. He’s supposed to be the one listening to his partner, not the other way around. And, to Mike’s credit, Mike does talk a lot. But Will has been far too presumptuous lately, and just because Mike doesn’t _show_ that he minds, it doesn’t necessarily mean that he _doesn’t._ Will has to remind himself to be better. He’s been wearing a few of the bracelets El got him on his non-dominant wrist, and he has a system going. When he catches himself being a little _too_ un-Match-like, he takes an elastic bracelet and snaps himself, hard, on the inner wrist. The sharp, momentary little sting is like a voice hissing, _be good._

That works for approximately two and a half days, until Mike catches a glimpse of Will’s wrist when they’re getting ready for bed. Will had been texting El, which was why his wrist was turned upwards like that. They’ve been texting a lot recently. He’s also been in tentative contact with some of the other Party members. He regularly plays a dumb little co-op phone game with Dustin called _Moose Mayhem._

Mike catches Will’s hand, phone and all, tilting it to bring the red-marked skin of his wrist into the light.

“What happened here?”

 _Shit._ Will hadn’t meant to leave a mark like that. He hesitates a split second before saying, “Not sure.”

“Looks like an allergic reaction maybe?” 

Mike’s thumb sweeps over the tender patch of skin, very carefully, and guilt turns Will’s stomach at the frown of concern on his partner’s face. 

All right, no more of that, then.

Mike lifts Will’s wrist, and Will thinks he’s just closely examining the angry red lines. But instead, his mouth touches the thin, ticklish skin of the inside of Will’s wrist. The warmth of his lips and the slight dampness of his breath registers acutely on the sensitive skin, and Will’s own breath catches.

 _Now?_ he wonders to himself, as Mike’s eyes flick open and meet his own, looking up through a tangle of dark lashes. And then, as Mike lowers Will’s hand, Will lets his phone fall onto the bathroom counter and decides, _Now._

Mike accepts the kiss. He accepts the loose embrace, and the escalation to making out for a few minutes, with Will backed up against the counter. They’re coming along nicely, getting themselves worked up, even grinding a little in their pajama pants, when Will takes the leap. He’s been trying to send off signals, making himself as open and compliant as he can, but either Mike’s not picking up on it or he’s unwilling to accept the invitations that Will is sending with his posture. _It’s okay,_ he’s trying to say, _Look, you’re not forcing me at all. I’m not withdrawing or pushing back at all. Just try. Just try it, and you’ll see. I want this, I want whatever you want._

But Mike won’t take the bait. He kisses Will slow and heavy, sighing against his mouth and tracing little circles over the clothed skin of Will’s waist, but despite all Will’s openness, he won’t push them any further.

So, heart in his throat, Will is the one that lets one hand slip down from Mike’s shoulder, down his chest, moving slowly towards -

“You don’t have to,” Mike says, the moment he figures out what Will is up to, and Will huffs.

“Mike. If I _had_ to, it would have happened the first night I was home.” Then his voice softens, and he brings Mike’s face up with both hands, lightly lifting his jaw, and kisses him gently. “Do you want to?” 

Mike struggles. “I... you... you don’t have to,” he falls back on his mantra, and Will insists -

“Do you want to?” 

Mike swallows, eyes closed. “Yes,” he admits in a dry whisper. “God, yes, Will. But you don’t -” 

“I want to.” 

Mike opens his eyes, peering into Will’s, seeming to probe into his mind, searching for dishonesty or discomfort. Will lowers his chin a bit to widen his eyes, staring back. 

“I want to,” Will reassures. 

He braves a slow roll of the hips, so that Mike can feel Will’s hard-on press momentarily against his hip. Mike gives an uneven breath. 

“I want _you.”_

“You’re sure?” Mike half-whispers, and Will nods earnestly. 

“Anything you want.” 

That was the wrong choice of words; Mike’s expression twitches, tightening for a second. But before Will can recalculate, rephrase, he runs his palms up and down Will’s ticklish sides and says, “What do _you_ want?” 

Will grins slyly. “Well,” he says. He starts to push forward, pressing on Mike’s chest until he takes one step back, then two. A third step brings Mike’s back up against the opposite wall, and he shivers as his shoulder blades hit the cold, smooth stone tiles. Will slinks up to press against him.

“I was thinking...” 

Will kisses him, elated at the fast little _bip-bip-bip_ of Mike’s pulse under his skin, clearly excited. His hand skims down Mike’s belly and Mike sucks in a breath. Will toys with the drawstring of his pajama pants. 

“If I may...?” 

A nod, his cheeks scarlet. 

Will takes the time to pull apart the bow of his drawstring slowly, fighting his own impatience to watch his partner shift and squirm, eyes closing. Mike moves his hips away from the wall when Will is done, allowing him to slide the material down, and his dick bobs free. Will catches it in his palm, making Mike grunt, but he barely takes a moment to savor the feeling of the hot, soft skin before he drops to his knees, repositioning himself quick as a flash so that he can dive down with a dripping tongue and take Mike in his mouth. As much as he can, and then a little further, swallowing instinctively when he hits the back of Will’s throat. 

“Fuck!” Mike barks, clearly startled out of his skin to suddenly have a hot, wet mouth engulfing him, and Will chuckles - and the vibrations of his voice have Mike arching off the wall, pushing a little ways down his throat, his hands scrabbling at the smooth tiles before he anchors them in Will’s hair.

Will is fully prepared for Mike to jerk up into his throat, making it hard to breathe, to use Will’s hair to pull his head up and down. Will gave him permission, after all, he said he wanted this. Nothing should be in the way of Mike taking his pleasure, now; he’s free to do with Will as he pleases. Green light. Mission is a-go. Except the fingers twined in Will’s hair loosen a degree, and instead of pushing him farther down, they start rubbing over Will’s scalp. Will shivers, confused and pleasantly startled by the sensation. He moves back and forth on his own, without the rough guidance he expected, lapping his tongue along the underside of the shaft, indulging in the quick pulse of Mike’s heartbeat in the vein that runs bottom to top. And Mike, with his hands shoved into Will’s hair, grunts softly, like he’s trying to be quiet to make up for that first shout.

Mike doesn’t stop the gentle motion of his hands, and it’s so unexpectedly comforting, pleasurable, that Will practically melts. He nuzzles into the sensation, continuing his task lazily, languidly. It becomes a feedback loop of sorts. Mike tugs at the roots of Will’s hair, just enough to make him squirm, and Will pushes his head forward to increase the sensation. Taking Mike more fully into his mouth almost becomes a secondary outcome. And then Will undulates his tongue, forward and back along the hot skin, and Mike groans and cards his fingers through Will’s hair. It’s so fundamentally different from what Will expected - so unlike the hard, fast throatfucking that Will had been prepared for, had been _looking forward to,_ even - that the surprise doesn’t wear off.

It might be the surprise that does it. Will is so busy thinking, _What is he doing? This isn’t what I expected. Oh, but please don’t stop,_ that his curious mind lands on the answer right in the middle of his wonderings. Mike isn’t taking his own pleasure, because he’s actively trying to give _Will_ pleasure. No, not even pleasure - affection. It’s a curious thought - that a blowjob could be something affectionate, like a kiss or a hug. Will wasn’t prepared for something like this. But Mike isn’t treating this like a service - this isn’t a transaction, it’s not a favor, no matter how welcome or pleasurable. It’s affection.

Just like that, Will thinks he understands the term “lovemaking,” and the realization nearly makes him tear up. 

The pads of Mike’s fingers scrub over Will’s scalp and the back of his skull, pausing to rub circles into the tendons of his neck in a way that makes his eyes roll back. It lulls Will into a state of half-trance. He moves back and forth steadily, almost dreamily, relaxing his throat to settle all the way to the base and swallowing when he thinks he might choke, and swallowing again, and again, forcing down the gag reflex, and he swears he hears Mike weep at the sensation, and then Will lifts again with a hard, enthusiastic suck, rising to trace the tip of his tongue around the head and flick over the slit. Mike is trembling. Not just the piece of him in Will’s mouth, but his whole body, the backs of his thighs under Will’s palms. Will realizes he’s been making small noises in his throat, humming and sighing at Mike’s touch, giving appreciative wordless exclamations at the warmth and weight and taste of Mike in his mouth.

But this slow-moving pace isn’t going to finish Mike off any time soon, so Will starts to speed up - only to have Mike stop him, bracing his shoulders and saying, “Hold on. Come up here for a second.”

Will rises, swiping spit from his chin with the back of a wrist, and Mike pulls him into a hard kiss. Will wonders if he can taste himself on his tongue.

“Let’s move,” Mike suggests against Will’s cheek.

So they take their escapade from the bathroom to the bedroom, dumping Roxanne the Great and Terrible unceremoniously out of the room and closing the door.

When they reach the bed, Will has gone a little shy, his courage momentarily spent after that first leap of faith. Thankfully, Mike is, _finally,_ feeling frisky enough to peel off his shirt and then Will’s, and that gets them back on track.

They’re tangled up on top of the covers, Mike caging Will with his limbs, when Mike slips a hand between them and inches his fingers under the waistband of Will’s sleep shorts. At Will’s fervent nod of approval, Mike pushes them down, and Will tosses his head back at the feeling of his husband closing a hand over the top half of his dick.

Mike vanishes for a moment to grab lube, and when he comes back, he hesitates. This is the first time he’s seen Will entirely naked - and rock-hard, no less - and Will experiences a cold flash of fear that he doesn’t pass inspection. But when he pushes up on his elbows to meet Mike halfway for a sloppy kiss, and Mike’s lube-slick hand grips Will and starts tugging at him, the fear goes up in a puff of smoke.

He barely lasts a minute before his desire gets the best of him.

Will pushes up, kisses Mike on the cheek, and reaches for a palmful of lube of his own. Mike gives a little jerk when Will starts stroking him in turn, and Will speaks quietly into his ear. “You can fuck me if you want. Just as long as you get me ready first.” 

Mike goes very red, his pace stuttering. He lets out a puff of breath. “I’ve never actually... with a guy...” 

“Never?” 

Mike - panting and unfocused because Will is still slowly jacking him off, keeping him nice and horny and needy through their conversation - shakes his head a little and then says, “Well, hand jobs. Blow jobs. But not... You know.” 

Will considers this, somewhat pleased. It’s not every day a Match gets one of their partner’s firsts. 

“Hmm,” he hums in Mike’s ear, and then asks, “Have you ever fingered yourself, love?”

Oops - he’s not supposed to use that name. But, oh, it doesn’t look like Mike minded this time. In fact it seems to have made him go a little redder, his dick twitching in Will’s palm. Interesting.

“Jesus _Christ,”_ Mike huffs, his head ducking. But he’s still squirming, pushing up into Will’s hand, breathing long, hard breaths, and a moment later he admits, “Yes,” in a strained, broken whisper. 

“Well, see?” Will says into his ear, “You already know what to do. It’s easy. Just...” 

He’s shifting them, a little, fumbling for the lube with one hand, dumping some on his own fingers to transfer to Mike’s right hand. He guides Mike’s hand off his dick - with some regret - and further down. Excitement and anticipation course through him, his cock straining up against his belly at the thought of finally feeling his partner inside him. He hikes up a knee against Mike’s chest, grimacing a little - he didn’t exactly do a runner’s stretch before this, and folding his leg knee-to-chest was an abrupt demand on his muscles.

“Go slow.” He wriggles in place a bit, settling, eyes closed. “You won’t hurt me.” 

_I know you won’t hurt me. I don’t even need to see what’s happening; I trust you._

At Will’s instruction, Mike works him open. But Mike doesn’t need the instruction to curl his fingers forward once he has two fingers comfortably inside, searching for the soft, tender spot at the front of Will’s walls that makes him arch his back and toss his head back, shoulders and stomach tight, letting out a wobbly “Hah - Mike -”

It takes some reassurance on Will’s part. Even now, Mike still won’t move forward without permission. It’s endearing. And Will hardly minds saying, “I’m sure, I’m sure, I want you, Jesus Christ Michael just shut up and fuck me already.”

But once Mike is inside, after the gradual process of penetration - another unexpectedly gentle, loving process that Will was taken off-guard by - it’s like he can’t hold back anymore. He’s careful, asking Will if he feels okay, if it feels good, if he needs a second. And Will hooks his free leg around Mike’s, saying, yes, yes, no, please. Once they start moving, Mike forgets to be gentle. It’s glorious. Mike’s brow is damp with a fine mist of sweat, and when he bends his head to rest it against Will’s, panting and whispering praise, Will tilts up to nip at Mike’s lower lip. As Mike ruts into him, claiming him at last, he bites back. And Will gives a deep shiver of satisfaction.

 _Finally,_ he thinks, arching up and basking in the waves of pleasure. _There we go. That’s good. God, that’s so fucking good. Did we really have to wait several weeks for this, my love?_

Will grasps onto Mike’s shoulders and pushes back, letting his moans fall from his lips unheeded, losing himself in the hot wash of pleasure that mounts as the bed starts rocking more violently.

He comes completely unexpectedly, jolting with a gasp, trembling as Mike talks him through it. He says Will’s name over and over, he kisses him, he gasps out how good he feels. Mike is soon to follow.

Afterwards, they slide right into another first: they shower together. Will lathers himself all over with suds, feeling as warm and heavy and smug as a cat in a sunbeam. He’s satisfied, pleased with himself, momentarily at peace with the world.

He scoops suds off his own arms and gives Mike a bubble wig.

* * *

Like a stern reprimand from the universe, Mike’s father corners him not twelve hours after he first has sex with his husband.

He knew that would happen. He knew that using Will like that would earn him some bad karma. Although, he reflects, it didn’t feel like _using_ Will at all. Will was the instigator. Will goaded them forward, Will kept furthering their contact. Can Mike rightfully feel that their lovemaking was mutual, if Will only did it because they programmed him to? _Did_ he only do it because he was programmed to?

This is what Mike is thinking about as he and his father climb into the back of his father’s top-of-the-line SUV. The driver starts off down their long driveway, and Ted Wheeler barely hesitates before jumping right in.

“Okay,” he says. He chose one of the back-facing seats so that Mike would have to face him. “Here’s the rub. You’re gonna have to help me out.”

Mike bursts out laughing. “Hahahahalike hell. I told you, I’ve had enough of functions. I already quit. I’m not part of the team anymore, I _told_ you that.” 

His father holds up a hand. “Listen, I know that. And I respect your desire to forge your own path, I do. Every young American should make their own destiny. But you also are part of this family. We put a roof over your head, _and_ your spouse’s head. All I want is a favor.”

Mike rubs his temples. Of course his father would start this conversation now, here. In a moving car, there’s nowhere to run.

“What?” Mike says.

The long and short of it is, his father wants him to make a public toast, in front of the cameras, at the party coming up this week. If the country sees Mike, young and handsome (Mike snorts at that - they both know it’s not true) and happy at the side of his newlywed, making a toast “to my new Match” - with maybe a kiss to seal the deal - it helps to sell a positive image.

“Hell, I’m not even asking for an interview,” Ted says, although Mike has been staring at the floor of the car with his arms crossed for the past five minutes. “I could, but I know you get uppity about those things, so I’m not. I’m just asking -” 

“And what if I’m disinclined to?” Mike says, enunciating to underline his point. 

Ted meets his gaze evenly. “Listen, all I want is some good publicity. I get good publicity, you get good publicity. It’s a win-win. But it goes both ways. I get bad publicity...” He gestures to fill in the rest of the sentence and Mike scoffs. 

“I don’t care what they say about me.” 

“You do,” Mr. Wheeler bounces back, monotone, and Mike hates that he’s right, in some deep, ingrained part of himself that’s been festering away since childhood. “And furthermore,” Ted goes on, “Potential employers do. Potential allies. Points of contact. You want to make your own path? Good. I can make that easier for you. Or I can make it harder.” 

Mike’s blood has started to run cold, and it goes even colder when Ted says, “Who’s going to hire you if your name is associated with an underage DUI charge? You want me to dig that up again, I can dig that up.” 

“That was years ago,” Mike mutters, “And it was _one time,_ I was a teenager -” 

“Or how about this,” he goes on, “How about we do some digging on your friend? Hm? Jane, was it?” Mike’s head snaps up, but Ted goes on, “Strangest thing that happened with her. Appears out of nowhere, hides out in a politician's basement for a week unbeknownst to the homeowners... Doesn’t look good. Now, I don’t want my son associated with those things. Bad for you, bad for me. But you know how the game works.”

Mike is fuming. He can’t just do that, he can’t drag El into this after he signed _so much nondisclosure paperwork_ years ago, courtesy of Hop _-_

“So,” Ted says, “How about a deal? A favor for a favor. Give the toast to Will, and I’ll get you a connection at any job you want.” 

Mike doesn’t want the connection. He doesn’t want any of the white collar jobs that his father could get him a foot into. But he doesn’t want what Mr. Wheeler threatened, either. So, teeth gritted, he shakes on it.


	6. The Escape Plan

The main floor of the Wheeler house has been bedecked with glittering lights, velvet drapery, metallic streamers and balloons, and gouts of multicolored roses. 

Mike hates roses.

All the glassware is thin, delicate, glittering pristinely in candlelight. The ceiling of the main-hall-slash-ballroom is set to emulate a brilliant night sky, deep navy spangled with star-diamonds. The tablecloths are black and impossibly glittery, made of some buttery-soft, sparkly material that flutters and glitters every time someone passes by. There’s all the usual unnecessary decadence: ice sculptures, a chocolate fountain, scores of hors d'oeuvres being swept around the rooms by waiters. The ice cubes have flower petals in them. The champagne glasses have two frozen blackberries fizzing at the bottom of the glass, each, and some of the _petits fours_ have edible gold foil crinkled over the top. The music is suitably stuffy - just upbeat enough to keep spirits light, but just unobtrusive enough that it couldn’t possibly offend anybody, no matter how hard it tried. Like the piano music they play at upscale restaurants. Photographers float around with their cameras, immortalizing handshakes, dances, toasts, and one unlucky guest’s wardrobe malfunction.

All stairs to the upper floors have been roped off, with a guard at each staircase to politely wave away any guest that might not get the hint.

And there are a _lot_ of guests.

Mike currently stands in a gaggle of socialites, holding a martini glass, anxious and bored. Suits, gowns, and other evening wear swirl around Mike in a subdued rainbow of flashy elegance. Gemstones, silk, gauze, lace, holographic material that ripples with rainbows like oil on water. It’s like a modern-day royal court, everyone wearing their most dignified, eye-catching formal wear. 

They’re not in the main hall - yet. Once they’re out there, Mike will have to make his announcement, under duress and with a dozen beady camera eyes looking on. For now, they’re in his father’s wood-paneled billiards room, chatting with so-called People of Importance about Matters of Equal Importance. Company alliances, politics, troubling worker unions, developing Match technology. Some bland, glitzy Hallmark romance is playing on the large TV screen, and next to it, a weather report. 

Mike shifts his weight, resenting the two-inch heel on the formal boots he had to wear - they’re supposed to make you look taller, so you’re more intimidating or something - and swirls his drink. The olives on their toothpick roll around merrily in his glass. A moment ago he was talking to a young entrepreneur in a peacock-colored vest, but when he noticed Mike’s wedding ring he lost interest and wandered off.

Will is on his own, somewhere in the madness. Mr. Wheeler very pointedly did not invite him to come talk business with the VIPs. Matches, apparently, aren’t high-ranking enough to be privy to this very important information about taxes and traffic complaints.

“Want another, dear?”

Mike turns, a little surprised to find Joyce here.

Joyce is not supposed to be here.

Joyce is not a waiter, and in fact, isn’t even supposed to be on-duty tonight. They hired caterers to provide the food. And in fact, this room isn’t even supposed to be open to waiters. And yet, here she is in the unassuming navy waistcoat that all the waiters are wearing, her hair slicked back into a tight bun.

“Better not,” he says glumly, chewing an olive off the toothpick. “If I’m going to think up a way to hang myself with my own tie, I’ve got to have a clear head.”

Normally, she’d bat his arm for that comment, but of course she can’t here. Doesn’t look good for a staff member to hit the Big Important Politician’s son, even jokingly. 

Joyce used to be a maid in the Wheeler household, before El started going to college and Joyce upgraded to cook to earn some more money. Mike had tried to offer to pay for at least part of El’s tuition, if he could just convince his parents to fork over the money, but the Hoppers are a proud family - they refused. But even back before Mike met El, that night when they both tried to run away from home and El actually succeeded, Joyce was more of a mother to Mike than his own parents. She actually seemed to care about his dumb little-kid ramblings. Her only son, Jonathan, was four years older than Mike, but Joyce still took him under her wing. He used to follow her around while she cleaned, chattering to her and helping her out when no one was looking.

He doesn’t ask what she’s doing in the VIP room. No one does. Why would they? She’s just a waiter with her head down, offering drinks to people and clearing away the used napkins they drop on her tray. But as she drifts around, Mike keeps half an eye on her. She’s strategically circling. Listening in.

It strikes him as a little odd. She’s never been the kind to eavesdrop.

Then again, what does he care if she eavesdrops on all _this?_

He turns away, zips his lips, and eats his last olive. 

Anyway, Mike has learned a thing or two by listening in as well. And as he listens, he thinks. There’s an idea forming in his brain - a big one. But he has to bring it up to Will before he thinks on it too much more, and to do that he has to get out of this goddamn room. And getting out of this room means -

“Mike.” His father’s hand lands heavily on his shoulder, and Mike jumps, jerked from his thoughts. “It’s time.”

* * *

Will feels like everyone is staring at him.

He’s probably just imagining it. There are a lot of people in here, and he’s on his own; Mike’s father dragged him off to a VIP meeting. And anyway, he’s dressed more simply than many of the people here, in his royal-purple suit jacket with its tasteful spangling of silver stars. _“Wizard purple,”_ he and Mike had joked when they picked it out. His suit pants match the jacket, and the waistcoat under his jacket is a glossy black. Before the party, Mrs. Wheeler managed to snag him and convince him to sit still for her own makeup crew to smooth out his skin tone with powder and dash a swoop of liner over his eyes.

Will is talking to a woman in a white suit, with wavy brown hair scooped up in a loose bun. They were both hovering at the sidelines of the charity auction, watching with mild interest, and they started chatting about the art being auctioned. When Will happened to mention the words _“my husband,”_ she said, _“Oh, how long have you been married? You look very young,”_ he said, _“Just a month ago,”_ and she gasped, _“Congrats! That’s so exciting. What was your ceremony like?”_

And that’s how Will slipped up. Because, while it’s not _exactly_ a secret that Will is a Match, neither he nor Mike have been advertising it much, But when she asks about the ceremony, he’s distracted by a still-life being shown, and he blurts something stupid. “Oh, we just had it at the facility,” he says without thinking, and then curses himself.

But when he glances at her, cringing at his mistake, she slaps a palm to her chest. “Oh, thank God!” she bursts out, then lowers her voice. “I thought I was the only one here.”

His mouth drops open. “Oh, you’re -?” 

She nods, wide-eyed, taking half a step closer, and he can’t help but look her over. She doesn’t look like a Match. She has some developing crow’s feet beside her eyes, and her figure is neither slim nor curvy, but something average and somewhat awkwardly proportioned, clearly smoothed out by shapewear under the evening gown. She’s not perfect enough to look like a Match - and he soon finds out why. She wasn’t designed to be a perfect Match, she was designed to be a replacement for her partner’s late wife - as in, an _exact_ replacement.

They devolve quickly into Match chatter, falling back into old habits from their respective places of creation. Linking arms and retreating into a corner to gossip, like Matches in the facility during free hour, sighing and commiserating over shared hardships. Her name is Olivia - “The Second,” she jokes, though her tone says that she’s mostly serious - and with an empathetic audience, she slips into rambling. She’s talking about her struggles to please her wife, to be what she wants, and Will is listening with a sympathetic frown.

“But,” she’s sighing, on a roll, “I’m not exactly right. I feel like whatever I do, I’m still not quite _her_. Sometimes I say something and I can tell I said it wrong - I mean, I can tell I didn’t say it the way the first Olivia would have said it, because she kind of frowns. And it’s just so frustrating. I even have some of her memories - did you know they could do that? It cost an arm and a leg, apparently, and it took months. I was in development for half a year before they could pull me out. So, for me it’s like -” 

She takes a shallow breath, looking up at the ceiling so that the moisture in her eyes doesn’t run over and smudge her makeup. Her false eyelashes glitter. 

“That’s _my_ wife. That’s _my_ life. I remember it. I remember our wedding, and I remember meeting her in college, and I remember our dog and our baby. Sometimes I forget that I’m not actually her, because... I am. In most of the ways that count, I am her. But there’s a difference. I don’t know what it is, but I’m just - I’m not quite good enough. I want to be who I’m supposed to be, for her, but...” 

She shakes her head and suddenly swigs down half a glass of white wine. 

“I’m sorry,” she says with a grimace at the large gulp of alcohol. “I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you, I’m bringing you down. I just don’t usually meet another one. Someone who understands, you know?” 

Will nods, murmuring, “Absolutely.” 

“I don’t usually get the opportunity to talk to someone like me, so I guess I kind of went overboard there. I’m usually home or hiking, with no one else around. We do a lot of hiking.” Suddenly she smiles - big, genuine, sweet. “You know what, though? When I came home for the first time, our baby girl was three. And she recognized me. She remembered me. Or - her. She remembered the first Olivia. But when I walked in she _screamed._ She ran to me as fast as her little legs would take her and jumped right into my arms. She wouldn’t let go for hours and hours. It was the best moment of my life.”

They’re still talking when Will catches sight of Mike. He’s wandering around with his head lifted, clearly scanning the crowd, and Will lifts an arm to flag him down. Olivia the Second says, “That one’s yours?” and Will nods. She casts him a sly grin. “Lucky you. I’ll leave you to it, then. Good to meet you, Will.”

With that she’s gone, clicking away towards a table full of chocolate truffles, and Mike notices Will a second later. He hurries over.

“There you are,” he says, and Will is about to apologize when Mike loops an arm over his shoulders and says, “Listen, I should warn you, my dad wants me to -”

But he doesn’t get to finish his sentence before Karen Wheeler, resplendent in a sweeping ruby gown, closes in on them. “Good lord, where have you boys been?” she scolds, taking them both by a shoulder and steering them firmly towards the main hall. “Michael, your father’s waiting.”

* * *

In the main hall, up on the stage next to the live music, Ted starts off the announcement with his own speech. Microphone in hand, wife at his side, he welcomes everyone to the party. He rattles off some pre-memorized niceties about whatever charity auction that all this is supposedly for, he says happy birthday to one of the elderly attendees, blah, blah, blah. At Mike’s side, Will - who Mike finally located, but only just in time for Ted to drag them both to the stage - squeezes Mike’s hand nervously. He’s not used to being up onstage, stared at by so many makeup-heavy faces, under the hot beam of the spotlights. 

And then, with a secretive smile and a grand gesture, Ted finishes off his statements with, “And now, before you all get back to having a good time, my son has a special announcement he would like to make.”

“Not so much an announcement as a toast,” Mike deflects, allowing his father to bend the microphone stand towards him. 

He can feel Will glancing at him, and he hopes he’ll be forgiven for this - he didn’t have time to explain the situation before they were herded up on stage. Which, as he reflects, was most likely his father’s intention.

He plucks a champagne glass from the tray that magically appears at his elbow at the word _toast._ Many guests follow suit, holding their flutes of bubbly aloft in anticipation. With a deep breath, Mike thrusts his own glass in the air. Beside him, his father mirrors the gesture, smug and self-assured of his own victory. Mike sweats in his charcoal-gray, silver-embroidered suit. Beside Ted, his mother smiles proudly at him. He doesn’t know if she knows what’s happening or not.

“To my new spouse,” Mike says, swinging Will’s hand demonstratively between them in a playful gesture. “William Wheeler.”

There’s an instantaneous flutter of whispers. There we go - Mike just confirmed it. There have been rumors galore. Who is this young man that has been spotted out and about with Theodore Wheeler’s son? Is it a boyfriend? A sex worker? Are they engaged? Secretly married? Could he even be a Match? But the thing is, nobody managed to grab a picture of Mike and Will leaving Perfect Match on the day they met, so that rumor isn’t confirmed. Mike suspects it’s half of why his father wanted Mike to confirm it with his own mouth.

Except, Mike didn’t say _Match._ He said _spouse._

High, clear tones of glasses clinking ring out all across the vast room. Mike clinks with his mother, who beams - apparently she didn’t know about the arrangement - his father, who fixes him with a hard, meaningful stare, and Will, who’s blushing a deep red.

“Sorry,” Mike whispers in his ear when he leans down, disguising the whisper as a kiss on the cheek. He has to lean down much farther than usual; Will got to wear regular, flat shoes, so their height difference is about two inches more drastic than normal. “I’ll explain in a second.”

But afterwards - after the seizure-inducing sparkle of camera flashes, the applause, and Karen’s closing remarks - Ted pulls Mike aside onto an empty balcony.

“That was not what we agreed upon,” he half-whispers. His posture, back turned to the cameras, says _relaxed father-son chat,_ but his tone of voice says _you’re in trouble, mister._ “You didn’t uphold your end of the bargain.”

“Ah -” Mike says, cutting him off, “actually, yes I did. If you remember, I agreed to make a toast to _Will._ I never actually agreed on the -” he lowers his voice - “ _Match_ part. That’s not how you phrased it when we shook. And I never lied, Will _is_ my spouse. What?” He raises his eyebrows at Ted’s tight-faced fuming. “You know how the game works.” 

Mike takes a smug sip of champagne and walks away.

He’s going to pay for that later, but for now he doesn’t care. Because right now, that plan is only growing bigger in his mind. And this party - this grand, wasteful party with its back-room politics and showy luxury - was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Will was supposed to be an anchor. Something to keep Mike tied down, keep here here, at home, where he can be a pawn. And for a while, Mike believed that. But. Especially as of late, since he met Will, he’s started to wonder. Would it be so impossible to take Will with him? No - for them to go together? On tax forms, Matches are listed as “dependents” as well as spouses. Unless your Match was designed specifically to be your business partner, they aren’t expected to work. But Will doesn’t seem to mind work - in fact, more days than not, if Mike is off with his parents, Will is down in the kitchens with Joyce, helping her debone fish and scrub down the kitchen floor and tend to the windowsill herb garden. And he’s expressed some restlessness before - he goes out with El a lot, sometimes with and sometimes without Mike, and he’s even starting to venture out on his own. He figured out how to call a ride from his phone, and he’s learning the bus routes (Mike has no idea how the bus system works), and now occasionally he’ll head out on his own to pick up coffee or go to the store or just walk around the city with his sketchbook, stopping now and again to sketch something. He’ll come home with pages full of skylines, pedestrians, park trees, statues, and pigeons. And Mike worries about him, when he does that - but he knows that’s stupid. Will knows better self-defense than Mike does. 

It’s strange, for a Match. Stereotypically, Matches are clingy, or homebodies, sticking close to their house or partner.

Maybe Mike has been thinking about this wrong. He’s been thinking - well - like his parents. Like they told him to think. Your Match stays home and you support them. It’s too difficult to afford to live without our money, in this economy - you’d never make it without us. Help us and we help you. Hinder our plans and we’ll dash your chances. For so long, Mike has felt infuriatingly helpless, trapped, hopeless. Alone. But the thing is, he’s not alone anymore.

Up until now, he’s been trying not to think about it too much. It was too huge, terrifying in its implications. But now that his father has actually started making threats, well, that changes the situation. And anyway, that one, tiny victory over his father gave Mike a rush of stupid courage. Just enough to take action, maybe. So if he’s going to do this, it should be now.

* * *

Will is drowning in a gaggle of well-meaning well-wishers and cameras, congratulating him on his marriage and trying to get him to pose, when Mike appears at his side. “Sorry, sorry,” Mike says to the crowd, “I’m afraid I have to steal him away.”

Will breathes a sigh of relief and leans into Mike’s side as Mike wraps an arm around his waist. Mike leans down to speak under his breath. “I just found out why my dad wanted us at this thing so badly. Damn these shoes!”

“Why?” Will half-whispers back.

Uncharacteristically, Mike nips at the shell of his ear. Will tries not to look confused. _What are you doing? You never act like this in public._

But then Mike whispers, “Act like we’re sneaking off to canoodle, it’ll make us look less suspicious.”

“This is _less_ suspicious?” Will mutters back, but he goes along with it, making sure to giggle shyly when he sees a camera pointed their way, a photographer smugly capturing the newlywed Matched couple sneaking off from a fancy party to do the dirty. He wonders which magazine that picture will end up in. What caption they’ll give it. 

Mike takes them to the kitchens. They slip past a security guard into a staff corridor, and from there down the staff elevator and into the kitchens. The kitchens, for now, are empty. The event was catered, all the food delivered in trucks, so no one is using the kitchens right now. Mike pokes around anyway, checking to see if anyone is around before loosening his tie with a long outbreath. Will goes to the pantry and starts pulling out bread, peanut butter, and jelly. He was too uptight to eat much at the party; his stomach was in knots the whole time. 

While Will makes his sandwich, Mike sits on the counter next to him, seeming to collect his thoughts. He long since kicked off his shoes, leaving them on the floor somewhere, and his socked heels bump against the cabinets as he swings his legs. Eventually he says, “So, there was a huge protest this week.”

Will freezes halfway through licking jelly off a butter knife. He’s remembering the riot he saw on TV before Karen hurriedly switched channels. “What?”

“No wonder my dad was so adamant about us being here. He needed to show us off to get his ratings back up.”

“A huge protest about what?”

Mike looks uncomfortable. “Matches.”

“What about us?”

Mike reaches up to mess with the hair at the back of his head. “You know there are some people,” he says slowly, “That think you - general you, not you in particular - shouldn’t...”

“Exist,” Will finishes. “Sure.”

He knows. And in a way, he almost agrees with them. But he doesn’t like to think about that too hard, for too long, or he’ll start slipping down a dark spiral.

“People have been protesting,” Mike says. He’s being quiet, even though they’re the only ones around. “I mean, they’ve been protesting for years but now it’s... bad. Stories have been getting out. Stories that assholes like my dad -” He points aggressively at the ceiling, as if indicating all the goings-on in the main floor - “Would love to keep under wraps.”

Will ‘s voice is low too. “Like El?”

“Black market, domestic abuse claims, people suing left and right, it -” Mike scrubs his hands over his face. “It’s a shit-show.”

“You don’t sound surprised,” Will notes.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been saying it for years,” Mike huffs, and then seems to bite his tongue. “The point is, things aren’t looking good for my parents right now. On the political front, at least.”

“So I guess we should expect more of that,” Will says glumly, waving a hand at the ceiling and using his other hand to take a bite of his sandwich. 

“No.” Mike says it with such conviction that Will raises his eyebrows in the middle of a chew, taken aback. Seeing this, Mike takes it down a notch, leaning in. “I have an idea. It might be stupid, but I want your input.”

“Okay?” Will says through his sandwich.

“It wouldn’t be easy, and I don’t really know how we’d do it, but - it’s just an idea, I just want to get it out there, and we can -”

He swallows. “Hey, dork, spit it out.” 

Mike calms a little, licking his lips as he seems to get his ducks in a row. “I was thinking about it,” he says quietly. “And I think, with my savings, we’d have enough to... Well, it’s not much, but it’s probably enough to start a new life. Apartment, car, travel money, furniture. You know. I guess I just -” 

He’s still a little too hyped up, shoving a hand through his hair, ruining its careful styling. His weight shifts around, as if he’s about to leap off the counter and take off sprinting in a random direction any second. Whatever he’s feeling about this idea, there’s clearly a lot of it. Will lets him ride out the wave of energy, watching quietly and eating his sandwich, and after a moment Mike sighs and holds out his hands. Will puts the sandwich down and takes them, stepping to stand between Mike’s knees. Mike’s fingers are shaking. 

“Would you want that?” Mike says, and Will barely lets him finish before saying, “Yes.” 

“No,” Mike snaps. “Don’t just say yes because I suggested it.” 

“Since when have I done that?” Will snaps back, a little annoyed. 

Mike seems to think, eyes tracing around in the air as if searching for memories before returning to Will’s with a shrug. “Okay, fair.” 

Will glares at him. Just because he’s a Match doesn’t mean he’s just agreeing to be agreeable. 

Mike kicks back into gear with a squeeze of Will’s hands. “I just wanted to ask you. Or - bring it up. I’m just bringing up an idea.” 

“Yeah, I got that.” 

“It wouldn’t be very fun,” Mike says. He sounds almost desperate, as if he thinks Will isn’t getting it and this is his last-ditch effort. “I had enough for one person, kind of, but I don’t know if it’ll cover two. We’d be... stretched pretty thin.” 

That gives Will pause. Why wouldn’t Mike have expected Will to be part of the plan? He ordered him over six months ago. How long has he been planning this? And why plan for one person if he knew he was going to be making a Match? It doesn’t make sense, but Mike is still talking, not giving Will time to really process it. 

“It wouldn’t be a very big apartment, you know? Not like what we have now. And we’d have to drive ourselves places, we probably wouldn’t have money for drivers or maids or anything. And we’d need jobs. My savings might help us get along for a little while, depending on how we handle initial costs -” 

“Mike.” 

“- but it’s not gonna last forever, and I’m sure my dad’s gonna make it hard for me to get a job that pays well if I don’t do what he wants -” 

“Mike.” 

“- he practically told me so the other day - so we -” 

_“Mike.”_

Mike stops his nervous rambling, finally, looking at Will. Will shakes his head, smiling a little at how chatty Mike gets when he’s excited or nervous, and lifts up on his toes to kiss him. “I spent three months in an undecorated bunk room with communal showers. This is for sure an upgrade -” He swings their hands with a cheeky grin, knowing he’s about to make Mike blush - “Especially since you’re here.” Mike does, indeed, blush, and Will goes on, “But I’m used to living on not a lot. And I don’t really like rich people, anyway. They’re usually shallow assholes. Be nice to get away from that.” 

He bites his tongue a moment too late, realizing what he just said and how very un-Match-like it was of him, but Mike looks delighted. He gives a surprised little, “Ha!” and collapses with a snort, giggling. 

“I’m sorry,” Will blurts, mortified. 

“No, no -” Mike wipes away a smudge of moisture from under his eye, using both their hands since they’re still interlaced. He talks through one more bubble of laughter. “Uh, that’s okay. You’re, uh, you’re not wrong.” 

Will’s heart is pounding. He’s always been restless, always eager to be somewhere else, loathsome of his various pretty cages. First Perfect Match, now the Wheeler mansion. The idea of leaving everything behind and starting on a completely fresh slate is highly seductive, enticing in its simplicity. And Will doesn’t even have much to leave behind just yet. He can’t imagine how huge this must be for Mike, who has over two decades of accumulated possessions and attachments and responsibilities and reputations. That’s an awful lot to have attached to your identity, weighing you down. And it must be alarming to face the prospect of snipping it all free after living with it for so long. Suddenly, Will feels lucky not to have a real past. Pasts are so cumbersome.

“Let’s do it.”

Mike looks vaguely terrified. “Yeah?”

Will squeezes his hands. “Do you want to?”

Mike gives a humorless laugh. “Do I want out? God, I’ve wanted out of this house for ten years. I want my own life, I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

“Then let’s leave.”

“I -” Mike shuts his eyes, leans his forehead against Will’s. His hands are still shaking. “I don’t know if it’s that simple.”

“Complicated doesn’t mean impossible.” But Mike is backpedaling, clearly scared by this, by the enormity of it. So Will nudges at his cheek, nudging Mike’s face up so he can kiss him. “I’m not a huge fan of parties and politics either.”

“But what if they -?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“But what if we -?”

“That one too.”

“But what if -?”

“Don’t be silly, they discontinued that promotion years ago.”

They look at each other and burst into laughter. Hanging around El has only strengthened Will’s streak of absurdist humor. When they calm, Mike sighs and shakes his head.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he admits quietly.

Will shakes his head right back. “Aren’t you forgetting something? There’s two of us. Just tell me what we need to do.”

* * *

“You’ve never had to be independent, Michael, you don’t even know how to grocery shop, much less manage your own money. We want you to do well, so we figured we’d handle that for you, that’s all. This shouldn’t be such a big deal. We even invested some in stock for you - you really should have done that years ago.”

It’s been two weeks since they agreed on their plan. 

Mike and Will just got home from making a public appearance with Mike’s father, mostly just standing around bored while he talked to people and into microphones. They’re still in their suits and ties. They were fresh out of the car when they passed Karen in the entryway, and she casually dropped the news on them: Mike’s parents kindly merged Mike’s bank accounts with theirs. Including the “secret” accounts that he didn’t think they knew about. But apparently, since the money was under Mike’s name, they found it. Or their lawyers did. Does it matter? Whatever the case, it’s gone now, swept away neatly under the wing of his parents.

Now, Mike slaps closed the french doors of their suite behind them. “Fuck! Fuck, what the _fuck_ are we going to do?” He’s raging around, kicking the coffee table. He yanks off his suit jacket and slams it down on the back of the couch. 

“Mike, calm down -” 

“That was our way out, Will!” 

“Well, do we -” 

“ _Fuck!”_

“Do we _need_ it, though?” 

Mike sputters. “Do we need money? Yes, we need money, Will!” 

“Okay, well, how much?” 

“I don’t -” Mike pauses with his mouth open, apparently trying to calculate. “I don’t _know_ ! But we need a moving truck, new phone numbers, a - a - a down payment for an apartment, _housing -_ ” He’s been flinging his hands around as he lists things, as if throwing each item against the wall as he says it. “- for while we’re still looking for an apartment. We’re gonna need a new car that’s not under my dad’s name, we’ll need our own insurance, and now we have _nothing,_ fucking _nothing_ , God I’m so _fucking stupid!”_

Will is on his phone, checking something. A momentary loading screen, and it’s confirmed. He looks up. “Well, apparently we still have _my_ account. I don’t think they expected me to have one. They must not have checked.”

Mike looks like someone hit the reset button in his brain. “Oh, yeah!” he blurts - but darkens again almost immediately. “But only a quarter of savings was in there... Most of it was in mine, and now...” 

“I bet we could still make it on what we have.”

Mike throws himself down onto the couch with another loud curse, startling the kitten, who scampers off into the bedroom. He works at his tie, undoing it as he rants. “God, they’re fucking right! I don’t know anything about budgeting, how am I supposed to support us if I can’t even -” 

“Lo - Mike,” Will cuts in, a little annoyed, “You’re not the only one that would be supporting us.” 

“Right, right. I know that. But still, they’re fucking right about me, I’ve never even gone _grocery_ shopping - I mean, I have, but not for everything, it was only ever for a few things at once, and usually it was stupid shit like hummus and brie - I don’t know anything about the real world -” 

“Okay, well, it’s a good thing I do,” Will cuts in. He settles on the couch next to Mike.

Mike looks at him. For a moment, the skeptical expression is very clear: _You’re a Match. How do_ you _know shit about the real world? You haven’t even been alive that long._ But all Mike says is, “Have _you_ gone grocery shopping before?” 

“No,” he admits, “But I know what to get, and how to look for the stuff that won’t expire soon. Stuff like that.” Mike is still staring at him, his expression a little softer now, and Will taps his head. “Match knowledge. Pre-uploaded. Comes in handy now and again, yeah? And I can budget, too. They had us all take Basic Personal Financing. I can manage a budget and I know how to handle credit and loans, if I need to. Of course, they were teaching us to manage big numbers, but I can learn to be thrifty. El already started teaching me, actually. You know, there’s this thrift sto-” 

He can’t finish his sentence. There’s a Mike in the way. Will kisses back, still a little annoyed but glad their small fight seems to have ramped down, and when Mike pulls back he still has his hands tangled in Will’s hair. He strokes his fingers over Will’s scalp, making him shiver. 

“You know,” he says, “I would be really, really screwed without you.” 

“Yes, you would,” Will snips. Then he softens. “I’m sorry they did that, though.” 

Mike takes a deep breath and scrubs his fingers over his eyes. “I should have expected it. It was stupid of me to put it under my name. I should have given it to someone else for safekeeping, or... I dunno. God, I’m stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.”

“Yes, I am. I should have expected -”

“What? You should have expected your parents to use their legal and financial connections to go digging through your private paperwork and find your bank accounts, and just casually absorb them? That doesn’t make you stupid, that makes them creepy and invasive.”

Mike snorts, then sighs. “Yeah. I guess I’m just used to it. They’ve been up to the same kind of bullshit for as long as I can remember. And I think it comes from a good place, somewhere in there - like, I think they really do want to take care of me, they just...”

“That is absolutely not the way you take care of your kid. Especially your adult kid.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to my world.”

“Yeah, well, we’re gonna get you _out_ of your world.” Will reaches over and squeezes Mike’s knee. “I promise.”

A small smile flickers at one corner of Mike’s lips, and he murmurs, “Thanks, love.” 

Immediately, his expression changes - he looks a little surprised at himself for having said that. But goosebumps are prickling up Will’s arms - a pathetically strong reaction that he can’t suppress. Verbal affection is something Mike doesn’t give often, which is strange, considering he’s such a chatterbox most of the time. So this unexpected little nugget of verbal confirmation makes Will grin reflexively, dropping his face to hide it. In his heart of hearts, he’s a sucker for praise. It’s a Match thing. 

“I didn’t think you liked that,” he says quietly. “That name.”

Mike shrugs, shy. “Well, you don’t _have_ to call me that just because -” 

And Will sighs, “There’s that _have to_ stuff again. I get it, I don’t have to. I get it. Okay? And anyway, _you_ put it on my form! Remember?” 

He’s avoiding Will’s eyes. “Right, right. You’re right.” 

Will hesitates. Why is he being so weird? Then he lets out a breath. They don’t need to fight over this. This is stupid. He took a couple’s communication seminar at PM, he should know how to handle this. 

He takes a moment to find his mature voice. “Is it okay with you if I call you that? Because I would like to.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

What kind of dumb question is that? Mike is Will’s partner. And over the past six-ish weeks, they’ve become more than that. Close friends - best friends. Confidants. They make out every day and have sex all the time, sure, but they’re also planning their escape together, planning their life together. Mike has nursed Will through a week’s worth of miserable head cold, dealing with all the snotty tissues and bringing him soup when he got home from “work” with his dad. (Will’s immune system is still catching up to the demands of living in the real world.) Will reads Mike’s writing and gives him feedback, catching the things that Mike overlooked. _“Hey, wasn’t it supposed to be raining? It says it’s sunny here,”_ or, _“You have an incomplete sentence.”_ They’re partners. They care about each other. Of course Will wants to call his husband _love._

Mike is scanning Will’s eyes, and after a moment he gives a soft, crooked smile. “Okay,” he agrees simply. And, just as unexpectedly as the first time, he leans in and breathes, “Love,” and Will shivers again. It’s not an _I love you,_ not quite, but it’s close enough that it makes his chest warm with emotion.

Mike is the one that snags Will by the tie and pulls him forward into a kiss. He loosens the knot as they kiss, undoing his tie for him, then pushes him gently back so they’re sandwiched together on the couch.

The minutes crawl by and Will happily lets himself forget what happened today. He can think about that later. He can start rounding up the numbers and scratching out budgets, seeing how much they’d need to be making per hour to survive in this or that city. But for now, he can relax, and he does. He’s content to lie on the couch under his husband, slowly working their way free of their layers of restrictive, professional clothing. Will’s jacket, Mike’s tie. Mike is unbuttoning Will’s shirt when he dips down and does something he’s never done before, pressing kisses down Will’s neck before shoving the fabric of his collar aside and sinking his teeth in. Will jolts, his hand flying to the back of Mike’s head to keep him there. Mike takes the hint and begins to suck at the skin instead, the hard pull of his mouth lighting up every nerve in Will’s body, making him gasp and buck up against Mike without meaning to. 

Mike never does this. It’s a completely new sensation, novel and addicting. It’s as if Mike hasn’t wanted to mark him up before, hasn’t liked the idea of seeing a bruise on Will’s skin, but he’s doing it now, and fuck, it feels _good._ Will is breathing open-mouthed, his knees propped up to cradle Mike’s form between his legs, grinding against the front of Mike’s suit pants with no embarrassment. They’ve been doing this enough that Will knows Mike doesn’t mind - in fact, he knows for sure Mike likes it, because of the stiff heat that Will can feel behind Mike’s zipper. 

Mike pulls away slightly, wet lips dragging along the skin of Will’s neck, and Will could just about purr like their kitten, when Mike sighs, “Oh, love -” almost sobs it, softly, before latching on to the other side of his neck. And Will hikes his thighs up higher around Mike’s waist, clutching him to him, half drunk on it, on the warmth, drunk on the pressure of Mike crushing him down against the couch and the sweet suction of his mouth on the sensitive part of Will’s throat. Drunk on those long-awaited words.

He glimpses movement out of the corner of his eye, and he looks. He’s just in time to see Ted Wheeler walking quickly away down the hall and around a corner, having clearly just witnessed them through the french doors. 

Will smirks. _Yeah, run,_ he thinks. _Before you see anything worse._

Will’s shirt and glasses come off next, and then Mike’s pants, and before long the room is covered in pieces of formal clothing. In a rare turn of events, Mike coaxes Will to top this time. They don’t usually do it that way, but after the day they’ve had, Will doesn’t blame Mike for wanting to sit back and be loved. And Will is happy to oblige, letting Mike set the pace, holding his hips and peppering kisses over his blood-flushed face.

Afterwards, as they catch their breath, Will squeezes Mike’s hand and thinks, _We’re both gonna get out of here. I promise._


	7. The Truth Will Out

Off-brand pop music plays over the grocery store speakers as Mike and Joyce pace up and down the fluorescent-lit aisles. Mike walks next to the cart, reading off of the list, struggling a little with Joyce’s spindly handwriting.

“Okay, we have Greek yogurt, eggs, almond milk, two percent milk, whole milk - why so many milks?" 

"Your mother only drinks almond, your father likes two percent and you've never liked anything but whole milk, ever since you were little. You always said two percent tasted like water." 

"We get three different kinds?" 

"Yup, have for years." 

"Huh." 

They're getting near the end of the list - apparently there's a certain order that you're supposed to grocery shop. Produce first, then things like bread and peanut butter, then boxes and cans, getting to the back of the store last to get dairy and frozen goods. Who knew? If Mike had gone on his own he would have wasted at least an hour just wandering back and forth. But, he supposes, that's why he's here with Joyce. To learn.

It's not as awful as he expected it to be. He had put it off and built it up in his head to be a huge undertaking, so he procrastinated. But it's not bad at all. It reminds him of when he was a kid and he'd spend more days hanging out with Joyce than with his own mother. He feels twelve years old again, trotting along beside Joyce, talking to her about El and about her sewing projects and his gripes with his parents. And Will. He's reticent at first, dodging or skimming over her questions. But once an hour has passed and they've fallen back into their old rhythms, he starts opening up more. She asks after Will and how he's doing. She asks what it's like to be married, if he misses being a bachelor. She asks what he's been writing recently. 

It's nice. Having a mom again.

She's also asked a question or two about the senior Mr. Wheeler. Mike suspects that it's out of a morbid curiosity - certainly she's not actually interested in or concerned about how the family politics are going. But they do both get a giggle out of imitating Ted Wheeler's flat affectations.

He kind of wishes Will was here. He and Joyce tend to get along; it would be fun with all three of them. Maybe they'll do that next time. But today Will had plans to hang out with the Party over video chat. They've been doing that more often recently. It's good to see him getting to know the Party - although Mike jokes that he's being replaced. Max and El in particular seem to like Will more than they like Mike. Or at least, that's what they tease when the Party is all together, meeting for their weekly campaign, with Will often watching and following along. 

By the time they get back home, meeting another household staff member who helps them carry the groceries from car to kitchen, it's late afternoon.

And there's another car in the driveway. 

Mike eyes it as he carries bags of flour and celery through the kitchen doors. It looks like a rental: shiny, gray, imposing. Classy but generic. It could be a friend or business partner of the family come to visit. He groans. He is so not in the mood for that today.

Then he turns around, brushing off his hands, and sees his big sister standing in front of the kitchen counter, helping to un-bag cereal. 

"Hey," Nancy says, as if she didn't just appear out of the blue with no warning on a Thursday afternoon, as if she's been here the whole week. As if things were back to the way they were before she left the house and things got bad.

Mike chucks the bags he's holding onto the counter and sweeps her into a hug. He's taller than her by several inches now, even though he's younger, so he's able to spin her around easily while she squawks indignantly.

"Michael," she half laughs, half snaps, "Put me down. I'm wearing heels."

"Good thing you're not standing, then," he teases, but he sets her down.

Seeing his big sister never fails to make Mike feel younger. She looks just the same as she always has. Her brown hair, not quite as dark as Mike’s, is swept up into a professional loose bun. She has more freckles this summer than usual; maybe she’s been out of the office more, doing some footwork. She’s poised and willowy as ever in a trendy but classy business dress. Her perfume _really_ makes him feel like a kid again, though. It’s the same verbena scent she's been using since she was in high school.

He's only seen her face-to-face maybe two times since the day she filled out Will's form. That's how thoroughly she avoids the house and their parents.

Not like she _needs_ to, Mike reflects a little bitterly as they go upstairs and are noticed by their parents. They treat Nancy like she’s a saint. _She_ never gets blackmailed or held on a short leash. Or at least if she was once, she’s long since escaped that. And Mike can’t help but to be envious. She gets to live her own life. Why doesn’t he get his?

 _Soon,_ he reminds himself, as his mother fawns and fusses over Nancy and Holly shrieks and bounces around and his father hovers nearby, patting her on the shoulder and asking how her career is coming. 

Soon he can escape just like Nancy. Him and Will. They’re just working on tying up some loose ends. They need to decide on a city, and figure out exactly what they’re taking with them, and figure out just how much money they’ll need to land comfortably, and if they have enough saved away, and plan out contingencies, and make some decoy preparations they can leave behind to lead the Wheeler family in the wrong direction if they decide to come looking, and figure out exactly how and when they’re going to manage to pack their stuff and load it into a moving van without Mike’s parents noticing. Not to mention that they have to secure their home before they get to wherever they’re moving - that might mean taking a day trip there, or a few days, and doing some apartment hunting ahead of time. And they’ll have to make sure they have jobs there, and who knows how long that’ll take. They’ll be job hunting from afar, on the down-low, maybe having to use public computers at a library so their Net trail can’t be used to track them down later.

 _Plus,_ they’re not just leaving. They’re running. Their goal is to vanish off the face of the earth, leaving no trace, no way for Mike’s parents or his parents’ friends or the press or paparazzi to ever find them again. And that means red tape and paperwork, all done in secret. They may have to hire a lawyer or something - fuck, Mike doesn’t know. They don’t have money for a lawyer, do they? Do you need a lawyer to change your name? How many different ways can they be tracked? It’s something he’s been trying to research. Although even that is tricky, because if you're searching _how to vanish off the face of the earth_ on your tablet, leaving a clear Net trail, you’re not exactly being discreet. They’ve been taking clandestine day trips to libraries outside of the city, browsing physical books and using public computers with no Net-cams attached to them.

And what about Miss Rocksteroo? Whether they’re flying or driving they’ll have to figure out how she’s travelling, and where she’ll stay in the interim, and -

Okay, so maybe they have more than just a couple loose ends to tie up. It’s one big convoluted headache and Mike barely knows where to start. He’s always thought of himself as a good strategist - he can weave together a campaign or beat his sister at chess any day - but this has been a bigger undertaking than he at first assumed.

Will thinks he’s overthinking it.

 _“Why can’t we just leave, Mike?”_ he said a few days ago, when Mike was working himself up to a frenzy over moving truck prices and crime rates versus cost of living in various cities. Will gently pulled the pad of paper out of Mike’s hands, where he had been scribbling equations, and said, _“Hey. We could leave this week, you know. I don’t think we need all of this. We have a little money, why not just do things on the cheap and live off savings for a few weeks until we find jobs?”_ He pushed himself up onto the bed beside Mike, slipping an arm around his waist, kissing under his jaw. _“We could leave this weekend. Just pack some bags, get on a Greyhound... We could stay in a motel while we look for a place, like we’re protagonists in some pretentious indie film.”_ Mike chuckled at that, and Will nosed at his jaw hopefully. _“Hm?”_

But Mike can’t do that. This - leaving the house, especially without permission of his parents - this is huge. It’s his whole life that he’s leaving behind. He has to be ready. _They_ have to be ready. He needs to have all his ducks in a row before they leave. He can’t consider the idea of attempting it without having every detail and contingency planned out first. This needs to be perfect, or he’s convinced it won’t work. They’ll be caught. And they only really get one chance at this, and he can’t mess it up for them. 

And speak of the devil, Will appears on the staircase, drawn by the ruckus. He’s in painting clothes: paint-smudged overalls over a ragged T-shirt, feet bare. There’s a streak of green paint along one cheekbone and smudges of russet orange up the opposite wrist. The pocket of his overalls bulges, full of something.

Mike sees his mother’s mouth twist; it’s hardly a look that she would approve of for first introductions.

“Hey,” Mike says, smiling to show Will that it’s okay, and he steps down the last few stairs. 

“You survived grocery shopping,” Will says, skirting the chaos to come click into place at Mike’s side. A small, fuzzy head appears from Will’s pocket, lifting to blink around sleepily before Rocky licks herself a time or two and goes back to sleep. Will lifts the boneless cat out of his pocket and drapes her around his neck instead.

“Barely. You wouldn’t believe the competition in the produce section, it’s like a jungle out there. I was nearly body-slammed into an avocado display by some old woman over the last ripe quiche.”

Will’s face twists in a snort of laughter. “You mean kiwi, bug.”

“No, I mean quiche. You know, those organically grown quiches.”

“Oh, right, those. So do they grow on vines, or are they more like potatoes?”

“They’re more free-range,” Nancy says, and Mike looks up to see her approaching. 

Nancy’s eyes meet Mike’s, and then she looks at Will. He can tell she’s trying to look him over while also being polite. Curiosity shines behind her expression, masked by professionalism. After all, this is the first time she’s ever laid eyes on her creation.

“Nancy Wheeler,” she says, holding out a hand. “I’m Mike’s sister.”

“His _other_ sister,” Holly pipes up indignantly.

“Will,” Will says simply, shaking her hand. Mike notices that he doesn’t introduce himself as a Match, but Nancy glances down at his left hand, noting the ring.

She scans his face again before letting go. She told Mike about how the form at Perfect Match let you design everything, down to the facial features; he wonders if she recognizes Will’s face from the simulations.

Nancy’s interest in Will persists through the evening. She works to keep up a conversation with him when she can, when she’s not being smothered by their parents. She asks a lot of questions and seems to test him in various subtle ways, seeing what he’ll do if she disagrees with him or asks him to do something. Will, not usually a big socializer, keeps up the conversation for politeness’ sake - and also because she’s Mike’s sister - but Mike can tell he’s a little confused by the attention.

This lasts all the way up until Ted announces that they’re all going to dinner, so Mike and Will better “Go change out of your sloppy clothes and get into something presentable.”

* * *

The restaurant they go to is, Will notices, nicer than anything Mike’s parents have taken them to for Mike’s sake. But then, he didn’t need to get this far to realize that Nancy is the favorite child.

The place is all low lighting and classic decor. The waiter wears a cummerbund and recommends expensive wines that would pair with their meals. Will has to think back to his training at the facility to remember which utensils to use when.

Mike is miserable. It would almost be funny if Will didn’t feel so bad for him. He slouches in his seat, slouches further when his mother tells him to sit up straight, and asks the waiter for “any kind of wine, as long as it’s a big glass.”

As much as Mike doesn’t like his parents, he’s still a dramatic kid at heart, always happy to be the center of attention. It clearly chafes that he’s being practically ignored in favor of the preferred sibling. He tries to speak up a time or two, trying to shift the topic, but quickly gives up when his efforts make no headway. Even Holly, who usually clamors for Mike’s attention, is focused entirely on Nancy, imitating her to a T.

So, Will is a little surprised when Nancy leans forward, elbows on the table, and succeeds in drawing Mike out of his funk in about thirty seconds flat. It’s so rare for Mike to bounce out of a grumpy mood like that, especially around his parents, that Will can’t help but be a little awed. But then, he shouldn’t be _that_ surprised. Mike is clearly as delighted to have Nancy around as he is annoyed that she’s the prodigal daughter. As much as Mike tries to keep it on the down-low, Will can tell that he adores his big sister. They bicker, they joke around, they say the same things at the same time. In fact, watching Nancy, Will can tell exactly where Mike picked up many of his mannerisms and expressions. 

Nancy also, to Will’s continued befuddlement, insists on pulling him into the conversation. He can’t make sense of it - until, all at once, it clicks.

So, when Nancy gets up to freshen up, Will follows and waits in the velvet-draped hallway just outside of the marble restrooms. When she emerges, she’s squeezing lotion onto her palms from a small bottle from her purse, and she stops when she looks up and sees Will waiting.

“It’s open,” she says, tilting her head towards the restrooms, and starts to continue on.

But she stops when Will says, “Yeah, I know.”

They regard each other for a moment - Nancy Wheeler, put-together and attractive in the same business dress she had on earlier, and Will in the formal clothes he changed into for dinner. In the background, the muddled sounds of soft music, chatter, and the clink of utensils blends into a white noise.

Nancy snaps shut the mini lotion bottle and tucks it away into her purse. “Okay,” she says, leaning against the wall. “So. What’s up?”

“You’re thinking of getting a Match.” 

Nancy blinks. “Huh?”

“Well, Mike said you’d be interested to meet me - no, wait, _very_ interested. That’s how he put it. And you’re clearly interested in how I -” He gestures at himself, somewhat awkwardly - “Turned out, so, ergo...” She’s looking at him with a funny expression on her face, and it’s making him a little self-conscious, so he goes on, “At first I thought maybe you didn’t like Matches, but if that was true then you wouldn’t keep talking to me, usually people just avoid me if they’re weirded out by -” 

“No,” Nancy says suddenly, cutting him off. “I’m not looking for a Match.” She stands up straight shaking her skirt into place. “But I do need to talk to you.” 

“Okay. We’re talking.” 

“Not here. And I need Mike too.” She glances over his shoulder, as if checking for eavesdroppers, and then says, “I’ll catch you later.”

“Okay,” Will says, more confused than ever.

She turns and power-walks back through the tables, deftly weaving around waiters laden with trays, walking in that purposeful way she does.

Will ducks into the restroom, just so they don’t arrive back at the table at the same time. When he does get back, it’s as if the conversation never happened. Nancy and Mike are bickering about something, Holly has taken Nancy’s side, and their food has just arrived.

* * *

“I need to go into the city to do some business,” Nancy announces. They’re back at the Wheeler mansion, having coffee after dinner, spread out around the luxurious family room on the main floor. As she stands, she pulls Mike’s hair like they’re little kids. “You’re coming with me.”

Mike glances at Will. They had plans to play a game together tonight, but Nancy is so rarely around that Will doubts Mike will say no. Plus, there is that conversation that she apparently wants to have with both of them.

And sure enough, just nonchalantly enough that it looks like second thought, she looks at Will. “You wanna come?”

He shrugs and stands.

“Are you coming home afterwards, honey?” Karen says. “You know you can always stay the night. Stay, I’ll have your bed made up for you.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Nancy heads towards the door, snagging her purse, and Mike and Will trail after her.

It’s spitting rain outside. The sleek gray rental car in the driveway is covered with shining droplets - and it’s already running. She slides into the back seat instead of the front, and when Mike and Will climb in after her, they see why: Joyce is in the passenger seat. Driving is a man about Nancy’s age, with mouse-brown hair and a peaked face. Will assumes he’s Nancy’s driver until she leans between the two front seats and mutters something to him, pecking him on the lips.

“Hey,” Mike says, sounding as perplexed as Will feels.

“Hey sweetheart,” Joyce says. She smiles, but it looks strained.

The driver - Nancy’s boyfriend? - pulls the car around and heads down the long driveway.

The rain taps a little harder on the roof of the car. They got in just in time to avoid the swell of the storm.

“This is Jonathan,” Mike says, seeing Will’s confused glance. “He’s El’s brother.”

“I work with Nancy,” Jonathan adds.

“Is that what you call it?” Mike mutters under his breath, and Nancy reaches across Will to shove him.

The car trundles out onto the street and picks up speed. There’s a strange atmosphere inside the car. Outside, the light has almost entirely faded from the sky, and city lights shine in streaks on the wet pavement. Inside, it’s warm and dry, like a bubble, removed from the rest of the world. Nancy seems tense. Joyce and Jonathan keep glancing at each other. Now that he looks again, Will can see the resemblance.

Mike, picking up on the tension, slips a casually protective arm around Will’s shoulders. “So, where are we going?”

“Nowhere.” Nancy, all at once, looks very tired. Her makeup has started to blur and crease after a full day of wearing it, exaggerating the bags under her eyes. She reaches up and starts extracting pins from her hair. “I just needed to talk to you.”

Mike, immediately, goes into red-alert. He leans partway across Will, eyes sharp and intense. “What’s wrong? Is it Mom and Dad? Did they do something?”

“Yes and no.”

“Damnit.” He pushes a hand through his hair. “God, I shouldn’t be surprised. They’ve been pulling that shit on _me_ since forever, I just didn’t think they’d do it to you too, now that -”

“No, it’s not that. I need your help on something.”

Mike says, “Yeah.”

“Both of you.”

Will nods, but Nancy shakes her head and says, “Hear me out before you agree.” She takes a shallow breath. “I’m taking it down. If I can. At the very least I’m gonna give it a run for its money.” 

“What?” 

“The industry.”

Mike frowns, not following, but Will knows before she says it. 

“The Match industry.”

Nancy talks as they drive, the car crawling through nighttime traffic, through intersections and between skyscrapers. The car windows glitter with drops of rain reflecting the city lights. Jonathan drives aimlessly, occasionally jumping in to add a detail or two. Joyce does as well. Apparently, this is something the three of them have been planning for a while.

At least a year, in fact. For the past twelve months, Joyce has been Nancy’s plant. She’s been listening in on Ted, using her invisibility as a house staff member to see and hear things that weren’t supposed to leave the walls of the Wheeler mansion. Jonathan has mostly been travelling with Nancy, taking pictures at her side while she takes notes and does interviews.

She just has a few key interviews left before she can finish and publish her article, which - with any luck - will expose all the ugliest sides of the industry. Match companies tend to be very secretive about just what goes on behind company walls; many citizens have only a vague idea of what a Match _is_ or how they’re made. But more and more information has been leaking out, despite the industry’s lawyers scrambling to get it locked down, and the more people learn, the angrier they are. The public is out for blood, and it’s the perfect opportunity to get all the information out that she can. If she plays it right, she could Jenga the whole industry for good - and that just so happens to include Ted Wheeler’s reputation and status.

The last of her interviews include a certain couple - one Match, one partner, recently married, paraded around by Ted and Karen Wheeler as showpieces.

And that’s not quite all.

“If that’s all you’re comfortable with,” she says repeatedly, “That’s all we’ll do. We don’t have to do anything else. I mean, we don’t even _have_ to do the interview if you don’t want, I won’t force you. It’ll be completely anonymous in any case. But...”

They have a contact. A spy, if you will. Someone who works for Perfect Match - in fact, he works inside the same facility that created Will.

His name is Bob Newby, he’s an old classmate of Joyce’s, and he works in security. Specifically, he programs and does maintenance on the security system that guards the Matches inside the facility. Will sits in the car, thinking of the ever-present cameras inside Perfect Match. It had never really occurred to him that there could be a good person somewhere behind those never-blinking mechanical eyes, just doing a job. Someone who would someday help Will’s sister-in-law to take down the very company he works for.

There’s a scheduled maintenance of the security system coming up in several days. It’s a narrow window, but, theoretically, they’d have enough time to get in and out while the system was shut down for repairs and rebooting. Bob would be working on the system one chunk at a time, letting them know over a radio when it would be safe to move to this or that room while the cameras and other security equipment was down.

They want Will to come with them. He could be a tour guide of sorts.

Will stares out the car window as they say all of this. 

Can he do this? Does he even want to? The Match industry is the only reason he even exists.

But the more he thinks about it, the more he knows that his mind was made up long ago.

He’s scared. Irrationally terrified, somehow, that if he steps foot inside those walls again everything will reset and he’ll go back to the way he was before, the way his _life_ was before. Trapped and empty. But he thinks about El, made in the Black Market at the age of twelve, and he thinks of Olivia the Second, and he thinks of all his strange siblings, and of Mike puppeteered by his parents’ politics.

And he agrees.

* * *

When Jonathan pulls the car up the Wheelers’ long driveway again, the atmosphere in the car is one of anxious anticipation. Like the atmosphere inside a school bus on the way to a big competition, except if the school competition was such that you’d go to jail for life if you lost.

Jonathan parks the car and turns it off, tossing the keys back to Nancy. He and Joyce head towards Joyce’s own car, which is parked somewhere around the side of the building near the kitchen doors. Will starts to follow Mike out, but Nancy says, “Actually, Will, could you wait a minute?”

He and Mike glance at each other, and then Will says, “Sure.”

“See you inside,” Mike says, and Will nods.

Nancy pulls the door shut behind him. It’s just them in the car now. Rain still taps on the roof. Will shifts awkwardly, but she waits until Mike gets all the way inside before speaking.

“You know, Mike didn’t actually fill out your form.” 

It’s so very not what he was expecting that it takes him a few seconds to arrange the syllables into meaningful words. And once he does, he still can’t get his brain to accept what he heard. “... _what?_ ” 

“He never actually wanted a Match, he hates Matches. Mom and Dad made him do it.” 

She says it so fluidly, so easily, as if Will’s whole life didn’t just shatter in a single sentence. He gapes at her, open-mouthed, reeling. His mind is blank. All he can dredge up is, “No.”

“Yes.” 

“No, he - you’re wrong.” 

She’s wrong. That’s not right, it’s not true, it can’t be. Mike wants him. Mike wanted Will, he made Will, Will is _his._

Nancy starts talking again but there’s a roaring in Will’s ears. She’s saying something about Mr. Wheeler, about how he’s a politician in favor of the whole Match thing, how it looks good for his causes to have his son appear in public blissfully wed to his brand-new Match. Things Will already knows. 

Will just can’t stop seeing that blank line on Mike’s paperwork, all the way back at Perfect Match.

_What do you look for in a partner? Answer below: ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Mike’s favorite color is blue. He’s a night owl. He likes playing D&D with his friends, who live far away, and he writes fantasy and science fiction stories. His favorite type of weather is rain. His favorite movie theater candy is Junior Mints, but he’ll eat Sour Gummy Worms too if Will feeds them to him - even though he always makes faces and complains about how sour they are. He wants to learn guitar. He wants to escape his life and start a new one. He likes when Will pulls his hair during sex and he _really_ likes when Will talks dirty and makes him blush. He once secretly gave shelter and food to a terrified twelve-year-old black market Match. He’s good. He’s kind. He’s intelligent but a real dumbass sometimes, and the biggest dork, and he has the most adorable chuckle. He’s Will’s husband.

Will feels heat pressing behind his nose and eyes. 

He thought...

He tunes in again around the time that Nancy is saying, “... never wanted someone to have to do and be what he wanted. He thought it was awful. He didn’t want that.”

Will winces. Nancy notices, but pushes on.

“He wanted a real partner, Will. A real person. A _friend._ So when Mom and Dad made him go to Perfect Match, he filled out bits and pieces of your form and gave the rest to me.” That gets his attention. “And even then, there was a lot I left to chance.”

Something breaks through Will’s grief: there’s his answer. There’s the answer to every time Will lay awake at night at Perfect Match and wondered, _why am I the way that I am?_ Every time Mike said something that didn’t quite make sense, every time Mike seemed surprised about something that should have been on Will’s form.

It’s because he’s not a Match. Not really. It’s because Mike _didn’t_ design him. Will has never been good at being a Match because he’s _not_ one. He’s never been good at being cheerful and subservient because he’s not _supposed_ to be.

His heart starts doing a painful little twist inside his chest. He wants to be ecstatic, relieved - but _Mike -_

And as Will just sits there with this whirlwind in his brain, he breathes, “Oh, my God.”

Nancy faces him more directly, touching him on the shoulder to get his attention. “ _Hey._ You know he loves you right?” 

Will just blinks at her, head aching, in a tug-o-war between heartbreak and elation.

“I’ve been watching how he acts with you. You’re obviously great friends. And he clearly trusts you, and likes you.” She dips her head a little to make sure he’s looking her in the eye. “And loves you. Will. Hey. Look at me. Just because he never wanted to make you -” Will flinches, dropping his gaze - “Look at me. Just because he never wanted a Match doesn’t mean he doesn’t want _you._ I’ve seen how you two are together. That little nose-scrunchy thing he does at you? The smile thing? I’ve never seen him do that to anyone else except El, back when they were dating.” 

Somehow, this is what pierces the fog. “Mike and El dated?” Will mumbles, but Nancy isn’t done. 

“Do you love _him_?” 

He’s stuck, like he’s been petrified, only managing half a vowel. “I...” 

“Do you love him?” she asks again, more firmly, staring into his eyes, and at last he snaps himself out of immobility, his mouth and eyes closing at once, pressing the moisture from his eyes down his cheeks. He nods.

* * *

When Will gets back to their suite, dazed and aching, still filled up with that double-edged sword of crushing, cutting disappointment and giddy revelation, he stands for a long time outside the french doors. A long time. And then, finally, he moves his leaden feet forward over the shag carpet, opening one door and slipping in. 


	8. Match No More

He finds Mike in their room.

“Hey,” Mike says. He looks like he’s been pacing, thinking. He takes a second look at Will’s expression. “What’s wrong?” 

Will kicks off his shoes, unable to come up with a single thing to say, and Mike watches him with evident unease.

“Will? What did she say?”

For a moment, Will gets the feeling that Mike has a guess as to _exactly_ what Nancy said.

But Will doesn’t know if he can have that conversation, right this moment, without everything inside him exploding out, and he _desperately_ needs reassurance right now. He needs his husband to hold him and tell him, _You’re not a mistake, you’re not a burden, I did want you, I do want you, I do love you._ And, more than that, Will needs to process the abrupt shift in his own self-perception. He needs to process that... he _doesn’t_ actually need Mike to say all that. It would be nice, he _wants_ it... but he doesn’t need it. Because he _doesn’t_ just exist for Mike. Which means he _doesn’t_ actually need his partner’s approval to exist, to live, to just _be._

And just like that something inside Will flips, like a switch. One moment he wants nothing more than for Mike to gather him up in a reassuring hug and rock him like a child, murmuring affirmations and affection to him, and the next Will wants something very different. He doesn’t want to curl up in Mike’s lap anymore, he wants to pull Mike into his own lap. He doesn’t want to be coddled or reassured, he... he...

He doesn’t want to be treated like a Match. That’s it. He doesn’t want to act like a Match, he’s tired of it, and anyway... he isn't one. Is he? Maybe. Not really. Maybe he’s something half-and-half. But right now, he doesn’t want to act like a sweet, accommodating little Match, like a living doll, like he’s supposed to. Because he never _has_ acted like that, not really. He’s always just acted like... himself. And right now, as himself, not as a Match, he wants to love his husband.

All this goes through Will’s head in the span of maybe five seconds, during which Mike waits anxiously, looking lost and tense. And then Will turns, hot-cheeked, full of a new energy, and his voice scratches when he says, “Could you come over here, please?” 

And it’s so simple, but so deeply, deliciously against the rules, so un-Match-like, making _Mike_ come to _him._ For a ridiculous moment Will wonders if it’ll even work, if it’s possible. But Mike does come to him. He crosses the room and frowns down at Will, concerned, pushing a strand of hair back from his face. 

“You okay?” Mike says, and Will lets out a breath, nodding. 

“I just -” How in the world is he supposed to express everything inside him? He falls back on an old request, something from their first night together. “I just need to be close to you right now. Is that okay?” 

“Yeah,” Mike says immediately, slipping his arms around Will’s waist and pressing a soft kiss first to his cheek and then his lips.

Mike is the one that guides them to the bed, easing them down and pulling Will to the center of the mattress. Mike deepens the kiss, after a minute or two, and runs a questioning hand down Will’s torso and towards his belt. Will takes it from there. He’s the one that takes the lead, this time. And not just the leading role - he’s been the leader before. Hell, he was leading them the first time they ever had sex, but that was different - that was Will coaxing _Mike_ to take control, Will reassuring _Mike_ that it was okay to use him. Not tonight. 

Will is the one that gently pushes Mike down on the bed, Will is the one that sprawls on top of him, kissing him, pressing him down into the mattress - the simplest way of saying, _I’ve got you._ Will is the one that takes charge. He’s not just goading them on, this time, or inviting _Mike_ to take the next step - it’s _Will_ taking the steps, getting Mike’s consent before pulling off Mike’s dress shirt, then his undershirt, then his pants, then his boxers.

Will stays dressed. Mostly. His pants have to come off to avoid some mounting discomfort, and he allows Mike to unbutton most of the buttons of his shirt. Like the first time they ever met. Catching each other’s eyes across the Meeting Room.

Mike reaches up and, with a tenderness that makes Will’s chest give a warm little ache, eases Will’s glasses off his face. They were already hanging on by a thread, knocked askew from kissing, sliding down his nose. Mike sets them aside, moving blindly to put them on the bedside table without looking, and Will obeys a strong urge to bend his head and push his cheek against Mike’s. Like he’s a cat - like Rocky when she’s feeling affectionate.

Will’s heart throbs and jumps in his chest. Some deeply ingrained part of him keeps expecting Mike to stop him, or frown, or say, “What are you doing? That’s not your job. Get off me.”

But he never does.

He gives Will an inquisitive look or two, seeming a little surprised when Will bears down, softly, holding Mike’s face in his hands as he balances on his elbows and splayed knees to grind down against him. He won’t put too much pressure between them, though, not yet. First he wants Mike to want it, he wants Mike to want _him._ So Will only kisses Mike gently, sweetly, barely a whisper of contact between their lips, and he swivels his hips against Mike’s just enough to _suggest_ the real thing. When Mike pushes his hips up, huffing out a desperate little breath through his nose, seeking friction, a flood of gratification runs through him.

Will has never really acted like this during sex before. And while he’s still nervous that any second Mike will pull away or get uncomfortable, he feels more confident with every passing moment - especially when Will breaks away from their kiss to look down at him. Mike looks up at Will with curiosity and a touch of confusion in his dark eyes, his lips all flushed and plump from kissing and his hair a disheveled dark mane around his head, and there’s no hesitance or fear in his expression. Because they’re partners. They trust each other. And Mike trusts Will to do this, whatever it is that Will is doing. Even when he collapses down again, pinning Mike with his weight and kissing him hard this time, breathing ragged, pleasured breaths as Mike thrusts gratefully up against him. A warm glow of pleasure suffuses his body, concentrated at the pit of his belly, spiking each time Mike pumps his hips up.

Will is still in his boxers, and he’s about to shove them down himself when Mike’s hands slide down his sides towards his hips, giving him goosebumps.

Mike leans up just enough to mumble into Will’s ear. “Can I suck you off?”

Will doesn’t mean to buck down against Mike, body bowing instinctively to press more of their skin together. It just caught him off guard. He wasn’t expecting that - that’s not what’s supposed to happen. It isn’t a partner’s job to do that for their Match, it’s supposed to be the other way around. 

Not like Mike has never given him a blowjob before, because he has. A few times. One particularly memorable occasion took place in the luxurious bathroom of another rich family’s mansion, when they had to accompany the rest of the Wheelers to a stiff dinner party.

But everything is different tonight.

Before, Will was acting as a Match. The accommodating sexual partner. He was doing what he thought Mike wanted and getting off on it, but now - now that he _knows_ -

He’s not sure what surprises him more: how easy and natural this is when it should feel so wrong, or the fact that Mike seems to have zero qualms about tugging Will’s boxers down his legs and allowing Will to flip them over.

Will hisses when he first feels Mike’s mouth, hot as fire and frictionless with saliva, close around the tip of his dick. He always kind of forgets how good this feels. He’s always so ready to offer, to serve, that it’s a somewhat rare occasion for _Mike_ to do this for _him._

“God, Mike,” he mumbles, his voice rough. “You feel so good. God, that’s good.”

Mike hums, making Will’s muscles tighten as the vibration buzzes through the sensitized tip of him. Mike slides up and down, taking his time. He uses a hand to squeeze the base. Mike can’t go down as far as Will; his gag reflex is more sensitive. Or maybe it’s just that his brain didn’t get programmed to swallow automatically instead of choke when in a state of arousal. Will can swallow Mike all the way to the base without sputtering - a fact he’s proud of - but Mike uses a different strategy. He sucks at the top three quarters of Will’s dick, alternating between bobbing and swirling his tongue, and uses one hand to put pressure on the base, occasionally pulling his head back to pump his fist up and down. His saliva serves as temporary lube.

Will allows his thoughts to drift and blur for a while, just absorbing the pleasure and attention and affection. He rests his palm on the back of Mike’s skull and lets his own head fall back against the mattress, giving little groans and gasps now and again.

But he doesn’t want this to finish here. If they finish now, they’ll have to talk about what happened tonight. And Will isn’t ready for that.

Not to mention, he’s not ready to let go of this new delight, this indulgence of control. It’s a more addictive feeling than he ever expected, this heady power, and the longer he rolls his hips - gently, so Mike doesn’t choke - the more he itches for more. More power, more control.

It’s not that he wants to control Mike. Well, he does. But that’s not what this is about. He’s not doing this because he wants to have control over his partner, it’s because he wants to have control over himself.

He’s been a puppet his whole life. And he’s always considered himself exorbitantly lucky that Mike never wanted to act as a puppeteer. But that doesn’t change the fact that Will, his whole self, his whole existence came into being to serve a purpose and fill a role.

Except that he didn’t.

 _I’m barely a Match at all,_ he thinks, feverish with the realization and trembling with the suction of Mike’s mouth around him. _I’m... I’m really more like a partner. I was never supposed to be what someone else wants. I’m my own._

“Get me ready -” he wavers abruptly. The waver happened because he was about to phrase it as a question - _Get me ready? Please? If you want._ But at the last second he swerved off course, aiming instead for an order. _Get me ready._ He landed somewhere in between. It’s a start.

Mike looks up at him, his lashes making a fine pattern on the tops of his cheeks when he blinks, and pulls off just long enough to say, “Lube.”

Will expects Mike to switch from one task to the other. Instead, once they’ve located the lube (it rolled under the bed two days ago), Mike settles right back in place, encouraging Will to wrap his legs around Mike’s shoulders. This tilts Will’s hips up just enough for Mike to push one forefinger between his cheeks, not hesitating a second to begin massaging the smooth ring of muscle. The palm and heel of his hand holds Will’s balls up out of the way. Meanwhile, his mouth slides down over Will’s dick again, making him groan and squirm at the unexpected bloom of pleasure.

Will forgets himself for a few minutes, lost in the dual sensation of Mike’s tongue flicking over his slit and Mike’s lube-slick forefinger patiently working him open. His mind goes blank except for the animal urge to increase the pressure, move closer to his partner. His hips push and pull without his consent, thrusting up into Mike’s mouth and then grinding back against his hand. He could come just like this if he’s not careful. In fact he’s tempted to. For a few minutes he wants nothing more in the whole world than to just writhe against his lover and let the sensations overwhelm his neurons until he knows nothing else.

But he was getting far too much enjoyment out of his newfound power to forget about it now.

It takes all his willpower to finally gasp out, “Love - _a-ah, fuck_ -”

Mike hums, “Hm?” and Will is, again, tempted to just scrap the whole thing and say, _“Nothing, forget it, just please please keep doing that, God, please don’t stop.”_ But he doesn’t.

There’s something he’s always wanted to try. It’s something that has always appealed to him. He even used to fantasize about it back at Perfect Match, sometimes, after one of his siblings mentioned that her partner wanted her to be “proficient” at it. But Mike has never brought it up, and Matches don’t make sexual requests. Partners do.

“You should - you could -”

Now that he’s actually trying to say it, he’s fighting against his training. His whole brain has burst into a chorus of frantic whispers, _don’t, what are you doing, that’s not allowed, stop stop stop._

He pushes through, but his own mind blocks him from saying it as a statement. He has to make it a question to get it past his teeth.

“Could you use your tongue?”

Mike’s head twitches, clearly confused. He has been using his tongue. To great effect. But that’s not what Will means.

Mike gets it a second later. Will can see the little lightbulb go on behind his eyes. The words _you don’t have to,_ and _only if you want_ are at the tip of his tongue, and he has to consciously swallow them. 

He’s a partner.

Will is Mike’s partner.

They’re equals.

He’s allowed to ask for things.

He waits for Mike’s nod approval, paired with a slow and devilish smile, before Will moves. He waffles for a moment, unsure what position would work best, before turning over onto knees and elbows, face burning. He feels horribly exposed like this, almost foolish, and for a second he wants to call the whole thing off and retreat to safer, more familiar territory.

Before he has any more time to doubt, he feels Mike’s hands on the backs of his thighs and he jumps a little. The bed sways and creaks underneath them as Mike apparently tries to find a comfortable position, himself. Mike’s hands slip up his thighs to the curve of his ass, fingers digging in in a way that makes Will twitch, and just like that Will doesn’t have any more time to second guess this, because Mike twists two fingers into him, testing the give, and pumps them just long enough to turn Will’s mind to goo. He’s panting and grinding back against the stimulus by the time that Mike abruptly slips his fingers out and, without warning, replaces them with his tongue.

Will jolts. The noise that comes out of his mouth is highly undignified, and immediately he pushes back, his body seeking out the stimulus completely independent of conscious intent. Mike’s tongue is soft yet solid pushing into him, unnaturally slick with a combination of lube and saliva, and it’s about ten times hotter than his fingers. Temperature-wise. And, hell, the other way, too.

“Holy fuck,” Will rasps, as soon as he’s able to speak. His forehead drops onto his forearms, shoulders pulling down towards the bed as his hips cant up in some form of bizarre yoga pose. If yoga involved having your husband eat you out.

Mike takes advantage of the shift, getting a better grip on Will’s ass before continuing. He gives a few exploratory licks before thrusting his tongue in again, pulling a weak moan from Will’s lips. His dick bobs underneath him, throbbing painfully and bumping up against his belly every few beats.

The novel pleasure scatters his uncertainties to the wind, giving him the confidence to take back the reins. 

He starts giving orders. “Do that again,” or “Harder.” He’s surprised at himself when he hears Mike jerking himself off and snaps, “Don’t. That’s my job.”

“Do it, then,” Mike pants, retreating to catch his breath. “I’m dying here.”

He does bring up a good point. Will has barely touched Mike since this started.

So he says, “Okay,” and sits up, pushes Mike onto his back and climbs on top of him. 

Will still has his shirt on. He had forgotten that, distracted as he was, and now it gives him a little thrill. Mike doesn’t have a shred of clothing on. Will still has a shirt. It makes him feel powerful.

Mike reaches for him again, drawing him in for a kiss, and Will makes a snap decision. Mike has been working tirelessly this whole time to give Will pleasure. He’s done enough. It’s his turn.

Will feels blindly across the bed for a particular texture. He grins when he finds it: a silky, cool material. It’s Mike’s tie, which got lost in the bedding when they started stripping down.

Now, Will manages to get both of Mike’s hands above his head before arousing suspicion. By the time Mike pulls back from the kiss, confused, Will is already partway through the process of tying his hands to the bed frame.

“Hey,” Mike says, sounding mildly affronted. “That’s cheating.”

His small frown vanishes in a puff of smoke when Will fills his palm with lube and starts pumping him, though. Mike sighs, as if in relief - and Will feels a pang of guilt for neglecting him for so long - and it’s all too easy to rub a thumb in firm, slow circles just under the flared ridge and watch Mike’s belly go rigid.

Will chuckles, lines them up, and settles back onto Mike’s dick without a word. He’s more than ready. Mike’s tongue made sure of that. Mike curses in surprise, eyes flashing open, and his wrists pull momentarily at the tie as if he was going to automatically grab onto Will’s hips. But he can’t. He just has to lie there, giving a strangled groan and pushing his hips up to meet Will’s slow rhythm.

It’s dizzying. Will’s senses are full to the brim with Mike Mike Mike, but his blood is singing with something different. He’s still trying to comprehend the idea of personhood, that he’s not _supposed_ to live and exist for someone else, that he’s as much his own person as Mike is. In a way. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to escape his nature, not really, but for right now...

The thing is, Will expected Mike to either speak up or go along with this. Put up with it, for Will’s sake, and then probably stretch and clean up and say, _“Well, that was weird, let’s not try that again.”_ But Mike seems to get off on letting Will be in charge as much as Will is getting off on _being_ in charge. As Will fucks him, alternating between bouncing and rocking depending on which muscle groups start tiring, Mike practically melts into the mattress. He thrusts up to meet Will’s rhythm, breathing hard and whispering hoarse praise.

“God, love, you feel amazing.” “You’re so beautiful.” “Just a little bit faster?” “You make me feel so good, fuck, Will.”

It’s making him feel drunk.

As Will feels himself hurdle towards the edge, he keels forward to brace his own hands on the headboard, snapping his hips against Mike’s in a way that can probably be heard from a floor away. If anyone could hear anything over the headboard slamming against the wall.

Mike is whispering, “Will, Will,” and it’s hearing his name from his partner’s mouth like that that finally makes something inside Will snap. He bears down even farther, snarling one hand in Mike’s hair as if for balance, his muscles screaming from the sustained intense movement.

“Are you going to...?” Will gasps out, voice rough, and Mike nods.

“Yeah. Shit, _Will.”_

“Good.” His fingers tighten in Mike’s hair, and Will growls, “You’re mine.” He’s shocked at himself as soon as he says it. It’s a delicious and dangerous flip of the script, a spit in the face to the system.

Mike shudders from feet to scalp - Will can feel it moving through him - and agrees, “I’m yours.”

Will shoves a hasty kiss to Mike’s temple and tugs at the tie, undoing the knots. “Touch me,” he pants, and Mike does, reaching between them without a second thought.

Will finishes not ten seconds later, and Mike is not long to follow.

* * *

“I love you.” Will is still trying to process what Mike just said when Mike adds, “And not just because we just had great sex.” 

They’re lying on their sides in bed, still catching their breath, having cleaned themselves up with Will’s shirt. Now they’re both fully naked, curled up under the sheets because they turned on the crisp, arctic air conditioning to combat their post-coital flush. Will is the little spoon; the air conditioning always makes him too cold.

He laughs a little, surprised and full of a bright and unexpected happiness. It’s the first time Mike has said that to him. He opens his mouth to say _I love you too -_ and then remembers why they had that great sex in the first place. 

He hesitates, but - he’s going to have to say it sometime. 

“Even though you didn’t want me?” he says quietly, playing with Mike’s fingers. 

Mike shifts under the sheets like he’s trying to see Will’s face better. “What do you mean?” 

Will takes a deep breath and takes the plunge. “Nancy told me about filling out my form.”

Mike goes stiff as a board. Will holds his breath, waiting to see what his reaction will be. Maybe he’ll be angry. Or he may deny it. Or he might just be casual, _yeah, sure, Nancy filled out most of your form, so what?_ Instead, Mike does something Will never expected. His arm tightens around Will’s waist, holding him tighter, and Mike gives a snuffling sort of breath - and Will realizes with a cold wash of shock that Mike is about to cry.

Mike breathes, “I’m so sorry,” and Will has to see his face, he has to see what’s going on, so he pulls loose from the arm around his waist and scrambles upright, flipping around to stare down at Mike. Mike lets him go without a fight. He _is_ crying. 

He covers his face miserably, pulling his fingers down his face as if wiping away sweat. “I should have told you, I just... I didn’t know what to say, or...” 

Will felt brave when this started, riding on the wave of his power trip, but now his heart is pounding and he feels cold. He resists the urge to pull the sheets up around him, feeling vulnerable in his bare skin, and remembers what his sister in law said - _“You know he loves you, right? Just because he never wanted a Match doesn’t mean he doesn’t want you.”_ And Will glances at the wedding band on his left hand - brushed silver, engraved with a chain of tiny shooting stars. Slowly, fingers trembling, he reaches out and picks up Mike’s hand, and runs the pad of a thumb over his ring: dull gold, inlaid with a band of petrified wood. It’s the only thing Mike is wearing at the moment. In fact, Will doesn’t think he’s seen him take it off since their wedding. Not to shower, not for sex, not for anything.

“You didn’t want a Match,” Will says slowly, echoing what Nancy said to him. “You hate Matches. Your parents made you do it.”

“Will -”

“Just tell me if it’s true or not.”

Mike’s dark brown eyes are wet, and the tip of his nose is pink. But he doesn’t look away from Will when he finally nods. “It’s true,” he says, voice breaking. “I’m so - Will, I’m sorry -”

“Well, I never wanted to be one.” 

Mike blinks in surprise. Then his face falls, and then it crumples. He smooths it out with apparent effort, flattening his expression into the socially acceptable mask of masculine stoicism. He clears his throat. “We’ll probably have to stay together for appearances’ sake,” he says, smooth and controlled. Emotion lurks just underneath that casual tone. “Until we get out. Once we’re out of the house we can get you set up with your own paperwork and everything and you can go wherever -”

Will realizes what’s going through Mike’s head all at once. “Fuck, Mike, that’s not what -”

“Please don’t think that I’m gonna force you to stay or something -”

“Jesus, would you listen to me? I didn’t mean I was gonna fucking leave you -”

“- you shouldn’t have to stay with me just because you’re -”

Will can’t take it anymore. He can’t take how fucking sad Mike sounds, no matter how hard he’s trying to keep his voice empty and emotionless, and he can’t take how Mike’s hand is shaking in his own. And he especially can’t stand what Mike is saying.

He’s reaching for Mike’s head, not sure if he wants to smother the words coming out of his mouth or cradle his cheek, talking over Mike’s babbling. “Mike - bug, stop - fuck, Mike, stop! I love you!”

He stops.

Will pushes himself a little closer, relieved that the stream of words has ceased. His voice is raw when he says again, “I love you too. Fuck, Mike, I’m not leaving you. C’mere -”

“You never asked to be a Match,” Mike says, resisting when Will tries to pull him into a hug. “You said it yourself.”

“Okay, so -” Will gestures vaguely, mind churning at a million miles per hour. He wets his lips. “So maybe I... won’t be.”

Mike looks at him in complete confusion, but this time when Will reaches out, he allows them to be drawn closer together.

“You never wanted a Match, anyway,” Will says, softly, afraid that if he lifts his voice this will all shatter. He’s timid, nervous. “So... How about a partner, then?”

He sees the exact moment when Mike catches his meaning. Something shifts in those deep brown irises. A muscle in Mike’s cheek twitches like he was about to smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Will has been easing closer this whole time, and now he finally settles himself in Mike’s lap. “I happen to think I’d made a pretty good husband. If you’d have me.”

Mike gives a little laugh and clutches Will to him. “Of course. If you’d have _me.”_

Will squeezes back. “I already have you. Mine, remember?”

Mike gives one more chuckle and then sighs, sinking into the embrace with his head braced on Will’s shoulder. “Yours.”

Late that night, they end up having sex again, but with none of the intensity of the time before. This time is just slow and soft and sweet, half-asleep at times. They draw it out for so long that they’re both nearly crying for release by the time they’re done, and afterwards, they clean up and change into pajamas and let the kitten in. She looks like less of a kitten and more of a cat everyday; she can take up the whole queen sized bed by herself if she really tries.

Now, as Will falls asleep holding his husband, with his cat curled up beside his pillow, guarding them, he feels more at peace with the world and with himself than he can ever remember feeling.

Despite the lingering knowledge of what they’re going to help Nancy undertake.


	9. Homecoming

Will didn’t think he’d ever be back here.

He watches the gates swallow them up, one by one. He watches the all too familiar top-of-the-line building loom closer, and his stomach aches with tension. His palms are wet and cold. Mike’s shoulder is braced against his, a silent but constant reminder:  _ I’m here. _

They’re in the back of Bob Newby’s egg-shaped little civilian car, approaching the Perfect Match Inc. facility where Will was made.

He parks in the staff parking lot around the side of the building.

“Okay.” He turns around to talk to his four passengers. Bob is a pleasantly round man, with a warm smile and short brown hair.

Mike, Will and Jonathan are in the cramped back seat. Nancy rides in the passenger seat. All of them are dressed in nondescript gray coveralls - even Nancy, who Will has never seen so dressed down. The idea is, if they are seen by anyone, they’ll look like workers. Today is maintenance day for this Perfect Match Inc. facility, after all.

Bob points. “That’s the staff door you’ll be going in. I’ll call you when it’s ready. It might be a minute before I can start, though, I have to go to my office like normal. I can’t look like I’m hurrying. Gotta dilly dally, grab some coffee, you know.”

“Sure,” Nancy says smoothly. “We’ll wait here. Just let us know when it’s unlocked and the cameras are off.”

“Got the walkies?”

The four of them each hold up their sleek, palm-sized walkie talkie, which Bob gave them to communicate with him while he guides them through the facility. That’s the plan. From his office, he’ll guide them through one room at a time as he, the security expert that’s been working for Perfect Match for years, does the semi-annual security system maintenance. As Bob shuts down the security cameras and sensors for maintenance in one room, they’ll move there. As the power comes back online and the next room goes dark, they’ll move on.

Perfect Match wouldn’t dream of doing something as simple as shutting down the whole security system at once for maintenance. That would make it far too easy for somebody to sneak in and make off with $200,000 worth of company assets in the form of one human being.

“Great.” Bob gives an encouraging smile. “See you on the other side.”

While they wait in the car, Nancy and Jonathan get their equipment ready. Jonathan carries a heavy camera, and he polishes the lens and checks the settings while Nancy gets her tablet ready to take notes and make voice recordings.

This is going to be half tour, half interview.

Bob will be guiding them through, but Will is “leading the tour,” as Nancy put it. She’ll be asking Will questions as they go through, prompting him. Nancy’s notes and Jonathan’s pictures will be invaluable, but as she said, “They’re almost useless without  _ your _ inside experience to give them meaning.”

Will feels a little sick. His heart is pounding hard and fast, making his fingertips throb in time with his pulse. He’s irrationally terrified that now that he’s inside those gates again, that’s it. He won’t be able to leave, not a second time. He had his chance to get out, and he came back anyway.

Maybe it’s not so irrational. What will happen to them if they’re caught? What will happen to  _ him _ ? Does Perfect Match still have the ability to toss him back in a biotube and melt him down for proteins if they discover his betrayal?

_ I don’t belong here anymore, _ he reminds himself.  _ I’ve been alive in the world longer than I was in there. And I’m not a Match anymore. _

He finds and squeezes Mike’s hand. It’s as sweaty and shaky as Will’s. They glance at each other and lean in for a quick kiss. Neither of them speaks. Maybe Mike has the same irrational fear that Will does, that if they speak aloud someone will hear them or some alarm will sound.

A nearly imperceptible click from the walkie talkies makes Will jump like he’s been shot.

“Okay, door’s open,” Bob’s voice says. “Go in and stay in that hallway until I say. You’ll be heading through some staff hallways to get to the Match residency area.”

A shiver of revulsion crawls up Will’s spine, hearing that phrase.

All the Matches will be outside by now. Will remembers this happening once before, when he was living here. If you could call it living. They shuttled everyone outside to the lawns and had them do yoga and team sports while “maintenance” was being done inside the building. He liked the soccer, and didn’t mind the sunburn that developed on the tops of his ears and the back of his neck, but he wasn’t as much of a fan of the lecture he got for allowing himself to get burned. 

“Got it,” Jonathan confirms, and they climb out of the car.

“You ready?” Nancy asks as they walk up to the building, trying not to glance at the now-lifeless security camera aimed at the door.

No, but he never will be.

“Yeah.”

Jonathan pushes open the door.

No going back now

* * *

The first step is the hardest. Once they’re in the Match residency area, they’ll be alone. For now, they’re in the staff side of the building, where genetic engineers design the Matches and the financial office handles the money. And where the security team has its base of operations.

“You’re about to pass my office, actually,” Bob says through the walkie talkies. “I’m waving. You can’t see me, but I am. Okay, stop there. There’s someone in the next hallway, let’s wait for them to pass. Not yet. Okay... go, and stop before the next corner.”

And so it goes.

Bob leads them not only through “dark” areas, where the security system is down, but also helps them dodge the stray Perfect Match staff member.

Will is doing his best to keep himself from tipping into an anxiety attack. It’s the smell. The smell of the Perfect Match facility is at once unnamable and horribly familiar, and the pleasant aroma makes Will want to retch. It smells like something that would have the word “exotic” on the package. Synthetic incense, maybe, or maybe it’s sandalwood and sage, the scent of some enticing but non-threatening candle made specifically for places where you want customers to be as comfortable and lucrative as possible.

Part of him wants to pull his undershirt out of the coveralls and hold it over his nose. But, for one thing, one of his hands is busy with a small walkie talkie, and the other is interlaced with Mike’s. And for another thing, he’s determined to be brave.

They’re only seen by one staff member as they work their way slowly through the sleek but lifelessly decorated staff hallways. She looks like a secretary - shiny red kitten heels, pencil skirt, slim blazer, carrying a binder overflowing with papers - and she barely glances at them as she power-walks past. 

Will lets out a breath as she disappears around a corner without incident.

And all at once they’re standing at a heavily reinforced metal door, waiting for Bob to give the signal. Beyond that door is Will’s place of origin.

Mike’s mouth touches the shell of Will’s ear. “We could still back out,” he whispers.

“No, we can’t,” Will whispers back.

Actually, Mike isn’t wrong. At this point, they could still retreat back through the staff section of the building, walk out the door, get in the car, and wait for Bob to finish his job and take them home. Once they’re past this door, they’re past the point of no return. From then on they’ll have no choice but to keep up with Bob’s cycle, staying in the “dark” areas until he’s done. But they can’t turn back now. Will’s quiet, sick terror at the idea of going back inside is the very reason they have to do this. If they don’t, what happens in there will keep happening.

There’s a quiet but unmistakable click, and a small red light above the door goes blank.

“Okay,” Bob says, “Go in.”

Jonathan and Nancy get to work as soon as they step foot inside the residence area. Jonathan’s camera whirs and clicks softly, bleaching the space with split-second lightning strikes of light each time. Nancy starts muttering into her tablet, recording each and everything she notices. Technically they’re not even in the  _ residence _ area yet. This is more staff hallways, branching out to the different areas. The difference here is that Matches use this space, too. Will looks at the plain, militant hallways and realizes for the first time just how drab the Match area is compared to the part of the building reserved for customers. No wonder he was so dazzled by the finery, that day he met Mike.

“You’ll have to move fast to get to the next room,” Bob says abruptly, “That took way less time than I expected. Go forward and left. Right! I mean right. Go right. Quick, quick.”

They half-run to the next area, pulling up sharply when Bob says, “Wait, wait, not yet. Aaaaand, now.”

They dart into the room.

It’s the cafeteria. This room full of brushed steel tables is where Will ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner every single day for months after he was released from the medical wing. There are the ergonomic chairs, there’s the row of bulletproof glass windows that look out onto the lawns. A football field away, Will spots three rows of figures following a yoga instructor. 

The Matches.

The walkie talkies click again. “Okay, good. You should have a few minutes in here.”

Jonathan’s camera clicks and whirs.

“Will, do you remember this?” Nancy prompts, and Will snorts softly.

“Of course. We were in here every day. 7:00am, 12:00pm, and 6:00pm.” He realizes that he’s drifting towards his preferred table. It’s the one spot in the room where you could get a good view of the sunrise in the morning. “If you wanted any snacks in between you had to get it specially approved, and if you asked more than about twice a week you got put on a watch list. Couldn’t have you going too far off your dietary guidelines.” He sits in a chair and spins listlessly. “‘Course, you could also just steal it. If you were quick, and if you kept very good track of the handlers’ schedules.”

“Handlers?” Nancy says, sounding genuinely confused, and Will tilts his head at her.

“Yeah. You know, the staff.”

Her face is twisting. “They called themselves handlers? Like for animals?”

Oh. He hadn’t realized that before. It was always so normal, so part of his everyday life, that he didn’t think to question it.

“Sixty second warning,” Bob says.

Will stands, only to realize that  _ Mike _ had sat down next to him. It gives him a weird, uncomfortable kind of shock, seeing Mike in a Match’s place, sitting where Matches do to eat breakfast lunch and dinner. It creates a harsh dissonance in Will’s brain that can only be soothed by reaching for Mike’s hand and tugging him to his feet.

“C’mon,” he says, “Being in here is making me hungry.”

Up next are the classrooms with their rows of single-seat desks, and the lectern and large interactive white board up front. Most of them are pretty much the same - standard supplies, standard bland posters on the walls that say things like “Put on a smile!” and “Your home is your kingdom - run it well!” and “Remember, three strikes in the classroom = one revoked privilege for one day,” and “and “Ten rules for a happy partner...”

Nancy is tapping notes as fast as her hand can move.

Mike looks a little sick.

Jonathan seems particularly interested in the posters. He snaps picture after picture of them while Nancy interviews Will about the classes he took at Perfect Match and how they were taught. He tells her about the basic courses everyone had to take. Cooking, home finances, socialization, first aid, couple’s communication, that kind of thing. He goes on to tell her about the more specialized courses, which were usually taught in small groups or one-on-one, things like dance and art. These classes weren’t about the intellectual part of learning -  _ that _ was all uploaded to their brains ahead of time. It was more about the muscle memory. Understanding how to do a back flip and actually being able to do one are two very different things.

The biotube chambers are next. 

Will has been on edge this whole time, but this is the first place that really brings his emotions to the surface.

It’s worse, because not all the tubes are empty.

Will approaches one that is empty, for the time being, and presses a palm against the cool curved glass. 

“Do you... remember these?” Mike quietly ventures.

Will shakes his head. “They keep you sedated ‘till you’re on a cot.” He lets his hand slip from the glass, leaving a fine haze of condensation around the outline of his skin. It lingers for a moment, then melts away. 

He would rather not linger here for long - the drifting, twitching forms in the tubes a few rows down are giving him the creeps - but Bob says it’ll be a few minutes before they can move to the medical wing. So, they sit down on the floor and Nancy interviews Mike about the partner side of the Match process. No doubt she’s augmenting the information with her own experience. It’s still a little strange, knowing that she filled out most of Will’s form. A lot strange, actually.

Mike mainly avoids Will’s eyes while he talks, though their hands are clasped between them. He’s never said so much about it before, and Will is as fascinated as he is disgusted. He knew that partners got to choose absolutely everything about their Match. He already knew that. But it’s different, hearing Mike and Nancy talk about how Will’s very being was molded and curated. 

“What did it feel like, filling out the form?” Nancy asks, all professionalism, and the sound wave line on her tablet goes flat as Mike hesitates before answering.

“Gross,” he says at last, and the wave bulges and then tapers with the single word. “It’s like - can I use personal anecdotes?”

“Sure. None of this is going directly into the report, I’ll be filtering everything for anonymity anyway.”

“Right. Do you remember when Grandma would let us go on the Net and use that site where you could design your own doll? And the idea was that you could make a doll that looked like you?”

Nancy nods.

“It was like that. But for a human.” He gives a dry laugh. “The idea is the same, though. You’re expected to order yourself a plaything.”

They pass through the medical wing, where Matches wake up and acclimate to consciousness for a few days. Will talks about waking up and feeling like he had been in a coma. He tells Nancy about his fake memories. Mike has heard about them before, but Nancy looks surprised to learn that Matches don’t wake up as completely blank slates, memory-less.

“Of course they give us memories,” Will says, laughing a little. “How else would we relate to the world at all? We’d be like toddlers. Every single thing would be completely new. We wouldn’t be able to walk up the stairs or see a leaf without having to stop and process it.”

The last stop is the hardest.

The bunk room.

Will stops in the doorway, breath catching in his throat as his old life floods back into his brain like a tsunami. He remembers the loneliness, the uncertainty. He remembers being so  _ sure _ that he wasn’t the way he was supposed to be, that he was wrong somehow. Bad. He remembers nights curled up under the blankets, head and all, sobbing as quietly as he could because the more he learned about the world the more awful and hopeless it seemed. Poverty and pollution and injustice at every turn, seeped into the very fabric of society. Plastics in the ocean, billionaires completely unstoppable in their destructive greed, genetically engineered seeds making agriculture worse for the earth, worse for people, and better for big companies. There was a hole in the ozone layer, rain forests dwindling to nearly nothing, totalitarian governments popping up left and right, and people don’t seem to care about fixing any of it.

And what was he? An expensive plaything, meant to distract somebody else from all of that.

Will moves forward as if by marionette strings.

He could find his bed with his eyes closed. Four rows down, top bunk. Elana used to sleep in the bunk underneath him, until her partner came to get her and her place was taken a few days later by a man with thick, curly hair and a Russian accent.

Woodenly, on muscle memory alone, Will climbs the ladder to the top bunk. His bunk. He’s aware of the others watching him, the way he used to be aware of unseen eyes watching him from behind the wall-length mirror across from the beds.

“This is where you slept?” Nancy prompts.

“Yeah.” Will runs a hand over the nubby material of the plain green blanket. “Right here.”

She wants more from him, but he can’t give it.

He lifts the walkie to his lips for the first time and says, “Bob?” 

Bob answers after only a few seconds. “What’s up?” 

“That mirror. It’s one-way, isn’t it?” 

There’s an uncomfortable pause. “Uh, yeah. It is.” 

“I always kind of wondered. What’s behind it?” 

“Observation deck. You can go see it if you’d like.” 

“No.” Will doesn’t want to. 

He puts his face in his hands, blowing out a breath, and Mike’s hand on his knee makes him jump. For a second there, just a second, he forgot that he wasn’t still a newborn Match, alone and scared. It’s this place. It takes him right back to that head space.

“Are you okay?” Mike is saying. “Will?”

Will nods, eventually, and lets himself flop back onto the thin memory foam mattress. 

Looking up at the ceiling like that reminds him of something.

_ I wonder, _ he thinks, and reaches up. He sits up, reaches, and pushes a ceiling tile up, dislodging it from its frame. He feels around in the dusty space, not really expecting to find anything. Surely Perfect Match found it first. Surely it’s not still -

There.

Wonderingly, he pulls it out of its hiding place. It’s dusty, filthy actually, but it’s still there. His first-ever sketchbook. His secret, personal one, which he only drew in at night. During the day he had to use the Perfect Match approved sketchpad, which they examined and psychoanalyzed daily to make sure his brain was in good working order. This one isn’t even really a sketchbook. It’s a composition notebook, and the first few pages are full of somebody’s grocery lists and bad poetry. He swiped it from a handler’s handbag one incredibly lucky afternoon.

He’s shocked into tears to find it. 

Opening it is an even nastier shock. He doesn’t remember his art being so dark. He supposes he had nothing much to compare it to, back then, so he didn’t realize how alarming it was. There are simple sketches - objects, landscapes he had never seen outside of a screen, people. His heart aches, seeing the roughly sketched faces of some of his siblings. And there are sketches of other faces, too, most of them early attempts at guessing what Mike might look like. Most of those are scribbled out, as if Will drew them and then felt compelled to destroy them. But then there are other drawings, etched in red and black and blue; startling, sad, violent colors. There’s a sketch of a boy suspended by marionette strings, and a few pages later eyes cover the whole page, many of them looking suspiciously like the beady eye of a security camera. There’s a wolf in a cage; a bleeding planet Earth; a lonely cartoon robot toddling around an empty city with “♡?” in a thought bubble; a patchwork Frankenstein monster staring lifelessly ahead while a doctor sews its mouth shut. There are lots of drawings of kisses. Lots and lots of kisses. Three guesses what was on Will’s mind. One page is just covered with the scribbled word  _ fuck _ over and over.

Will can’t help but snort. It all seems so melodramatic and juvenile. 

“Here,” Will mutters roughly, shoving the notebook at Nancy. “Might help with your article.”

As Nancy flips through it, her frown deepening with every page, Mike peers over her shoulder. Jonathan, with Will’s nod of approval, starts taking pictures. It’s old art, anyway. His drawing style has changed and matured since then. It’s barely identifiable as his own art anymore.

He’s about to climb down from his bunk, one last time, when Mike’s head pokes up over the edge. “You mind...?”

“Nah.” Will scoots back, giving Mike space to clamber up. The bunks weren’t built for two people; in fact, Will has long suspected that they’re as narrow as they are to discourage bed-sharing in the facility. But Mike makes it work, and he squeezes in to sit beside Will. 

One hand comes up to rub over Will’s shoulder. Mike wants a hug but doesn’t want to push Will’s boundaries right now. 

So Will does the thing that he so, so badly wanted for all those long, lonely weeks at Perfect Match: he falls onto his back, pulls his partner into his bunk with him and holds him tight, breathing in his scent and feeling the warmth and heaviness of him.

All those times he yearned and wished and pleaded for this to happen. Every time he balled up a blanket to hug like a stuffed animal, aching for his partner. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” Mike whispers against Will’s shoulder, and Will is about to ask for what when -

“Okay, shake a leg,” Bob’s voice says, popping the moment like a soap bubble. “Thirty seconds to get to the next room.”

As they finish their strange tour of Will’s origins, he refers Nancy to other Matches she should interview, people with stories of their own. El. Olivia the Second.

Their final path to the exit is slow, tense. They very nearly get caught in a room with no un-monitored path forward, once. It takes them thirty minutes to make their way through hallways that could have been traversed in three. But at last, at  _ last, _ they’re approaching the last door, and then they’re out in the rain-speckled afternoon and running to the car, diving into it, immensely glad to be free.

It’s another two hours before Bob gets off work and is able to come drive them home. They’re tense and jittery the whole time, thirsty and acutely missing easy access to a restroom, but now that the whole security grid is back up there’s no better place for them to be than inside a locked car with tinted windows.

Will can’t describe or account for the emotion that hits him as Bob arrives and they finally turn around, drive away from Perfect Match, and pass through the gates.

* * *

It’s just past midnight, according to Mike’s bedside clock, when his phone rings. They only went to bed an hour ago, and he groans as he slaps at his phone. The screen, at its lowest brightness, may as well be one thousands suns pointed directly at his retinas.

It’s Nancy.

He answers, but he’s not happy about it.

“‘lo?”

“Mike,” she says, sounding frantic. “Are you still up?”

“No, ‘m asleep,” he mutters. Beside him, his husband is beginning to stir, woken by the voices.

“Well, wake up again,” she says. “And wake up Will.”

She sounds dead-serious, and little alarm bells are beginning to push away the sleep fog in Mike’s brain. He sits up a little.

“Bug?” Will mumbles. His head lifts, spiky with bedhead, and he scowls at the clock. “Who’s it? ‘S Nancy?”

Mike nods to him and then says into the phone, “He’s up. Sort of. What’s up?”

Nightmare scenarios are flashing through his mind. The lady who saw them at Perfect Match figured out that they weren’t a maintenance crew and now they’re all being hunted down by police. Nancy’s recordings got leaked somehow and now nothing they said in there was anonymous, and they’re irrevocably linked and tied to the attack on the Match industry and they’ll never have another moment’s peace as long as they live. Grandma’s in the hospital. Nancy’s in the hospital.

“You have to get out.”

Mike sits all the way up. “What?”

His heart is pounding like a runaway train piston. It’s robbers. It’s assassins. It’s that guy from  _ Scream. _ He’s in the house somehow and that stupid mask is the last thing Mike is ever going to see.

“It’s going live at 6:00am.”

It takes him a second. And then he understands. _ “What!?” _

Will jolts awake in about half a second at Mike’s cry, eyes wild. Mike fumbles at his phone screen and sets it to speaker. Rocky Road, startled by the loud noise, pops her head up from the foot of the bed and makes a disgruntled  _ prrt? _ noise. 

“One of Perfect Match’s lawyers has started sniffing around,” Nancy’s voice says, and Mike and Will lean over the phone together to listen. “He found out I’ve been interviewing Matches. I’ve gotta get this thing published before they shut it down. It’s going up tomorrow, so you  _ gotta _ be out of the house before Mom and Dad find out.”

Oh. Fuck.

It’s been two weeks since their illicit tour of the Match facility. They had planned to be long gone before the article ever came out. They had their whole plan laid out. They were ready. 

Except, they weren’t, not quite, not  _ yet. _ It wasn’t supposed to happen yet.

They can’t -

They don’t -

They’re not ready yet, they -

Don’t really have much of a choice.

* * *

They call El for help.

She brings Joyce, Jonathan, and Chief Hopper along.

And thank God for that. Mike and Will never would have been able to do it on their own. Not in one night, which is already half over.

Thankfully, his parents are on a trip tonight, so they don’t have to throw their stuff out the window or anything. They can carry it down the stairs and out the front door - you know, like  _ normal _ people fleeing their house in the middle of the night in a frantic scramble to get the hell out. They have to lock that cat in the bathroom to keep her from getting stepped on in all the madness. She’s not happy about it, and her yowls are a constant background noise to the chaos.

They pack their most important stuff in suitcases, grabbing what paperwork they need. El shreds the rest. They try their best to wipe all signs of their existence from the Earth, removing any crumb that the Wheeler’s could use to track or follow them. They even wipe and then destroy their phones. It’s actually a bit fun to drop a naked phone from a third-floor balcony and watch it shatter on the marble tiles far below.

Mike, after saving all his writing on a thumb drive which he then entrusts with Will, completely wipes his computer and then leaves it there. Same with his tablet. They might be able to use its Net signature to track him. Is he paranoid? Yes. Does he have good reason to be? Yes.

They shut down and delete all their social media accounts, emails, etc. 

Mike cuts up and leaves behind his credit cards - they have Will’s, which his family doesn’t know about. He leaves his car and car keys behind. It was never really  _ his _ car, anyway. It was always just  _ the car that his parents bought for him for graduation instead of actually attending it. _ It was always just another one of his dad’s cars. Plus, who knows that kind of tracking devices might be embedded in that thing.

Mike quickly selects a few of his most prized notebooks, and then fills the bathtub with water and gets ready to destroy the rest. But he hesitates - he can’t do it. 

Joyce sets a hand on his shoulder and says, “I’ll take care of them until I can get them back to you.” 

So he entrusts them to her.

* * *

When they get to the Byers house, they have nothing but the clothes on their back, a large suitcase each, and a backpack each, full of basic clothes, toiletries, their very favorite paperbacks, two water bottles, emergency cash, IDs, a glasses case, contacts, a notebook and sketchbook, respectively, pens and pencils, a few small mementos, cat travel equipment, an angry cat in a cat carrier, and that’s about it. 

Will is unexpectedly cheerful. This is loads more than he had when he left Perfect Match. Mike, though, is looking pale and drawn, but strangely calm - stressed beyond his ability to feel anxious. 

They fill their water bottles, grab a bite of the Hoppers’ leftovers, and use the restroom. 

“I’ll call you a ride to the airport,” Joyce is saying, looking a bit pale herself in the otherworldly cast of kitchen lights on in the dark hours of the morning.

“No,” Hopper says, “I’ll drive them in the cruiser. No digital trail that way. No way to tell they went to the airport, no driver as a witness.”

Before they leave, El grasps each of their hands in her own and says, “When you get new phones, call me.”

Will is startled when Mike says, “No, change your number. He’s going to suspect you. They’re going to come after you.” He looks around at the Byers family, frowning. “You know that, right?”

“Won’t be much left for them to come after,” Hop shrugs.

Will and Mike glance at each other, not catching his meaning, and then Mike seems to notice something for the first time. He knocks Will on the arm and points to the living room, which they passed by in such a hurry on the way in that they didn’t notice how bare it looks. There are moving boxes stacked up along one wall.

“Nancy interviewed us, too,” Joyce says, matter of factly. 

“We knew the risks,” Hop says. “As soon as the heat dies down a little, we’ll be right behind you.” 

Jonathan nods.

Joyce gives them both an apple, a granola bar, and canned cold coffee for the road - “It’s going to be a long night -” and kisses them both on the forehead before they go. Then she holds both of their shoulders and looks at them for a moment. “Be safe,” she says, and lets them go. 

El hugs them tight. 

And then they’re gathering their stuff, loading luggage into the trunk of Hop’s cruiser, and climbing into the back. It’s about as comfortable as Will expected, but the other option was to ride on each other’s lap in the front passenger seat, which seemed like a bad idea considering they’re in a police car.

The late night air is cool, fresh, and alien. If it wasn’t so very late at night, or maybe so very early in the morning, Will might feel more. Three hours ago he was fast asleep. Now all of his worldly possessions are packed in a suitcase and he’s leaving everything he knows behind.

Rocky, mad as a bat out of hell, yowls through the whole car ride to IND. 

Hopper parks in the cell phone lot to buy them both last-minute tickets from his phone, flatly refusing the cash Mike offers to pay him back. 

“You’ll need that for supplies when you land,” he says gruffly. Then he gives them their ticket codes and lets them out - driving them through the drop-off lane in a police cruiser would have been suspicious. 

They wait in the cold, in the dark, with a very unhappy cat, for the shuttle to come by. Then they’re clambering into a very full shuttle, heads down, hiding their faces in their hoods. They both have a bit of stubble, which hopefully helps mask them. 

The next three hours are a tiring slog of printing their tickets from the self-print kiosks, checking in Rocky and watching her be hustled away in her carrier, checking in luggage, standing in line at security check for an hour, pleading with their eyes for the staff not to draw attention to the names on their IDs, finding the right terminal, waiting for the boarding call. 

Will is too tired to be sleepy. He observes their surroundings with a flat, insomniac interest, taking in the new experience. The airport is like a city in itself, and the atmosphere is uniquely timeless. There are coffee shops and pulp fiction books everywhere. A gaggle of college-aged girls in brightly printed pajamas hurry past with neck pillows wrapped around their shoulders. A large middle-eastern family sits on the floor of the terminal, by the window, because there weren’t enough chairs available. Businessmen in suits conduct business, huddled next to the outlets where they charge their electronic devices, and travelers sleep underneath chairs and on their feet.

Mike falls asleep on Will’s shoulder as they wait at their terminal, but Will? Will people-watches.

The plane is forty five minutes delayed. 

The flight is five hours, no layover. 


	10. To a New Life

A warm weight is settled on Will’s chest, just below his collar bone. A small paw gently taps his cheek. Then his chin. Then again, not so gently. Half-asleep, he lifts one hand and gropes for his cat, who chirps and starts purring when she realizes he’s awake. Because if he’s awake, that means he’ll get up and feed her.

Theoretically.

Will pets her on the head, blinking, and then carefully scoops her up and dumps her on top of Mike.

“Go feed the cat,” he rasps, and pulls the blankets further up around him.

A moment later, paws start climbing over him again - four little pressure points that become painful as she kneads. 

Mike chuckles blearily. “Seems like she wants you to do it.”

“Don’t you put words in her mouth.” Will pokes at him without really aiming and Mike clumsily pushes his hand away. “She doesn’t care who does it as long as she’s eating.”

“I did it yesterday.”

Will sighs. “Fine.”

He emerges from the blankets regretfully. The first week of November is almost over, and it’s been getting colder and colder. Will has never lived through a winter before. Not outside of a temperature-controlled facility, at least. He has his childhood memories of snowmen and sledding, Christmas mornings and waiting for the school bus in the cold, but it’s not the same as actually feeling the chill.

He turns on the space heater as he leaves the room, stumbling as Rocky winds around his feet, meowing. It starts up with a rattle and a hum, and warm, metal-scented air begins pouring out. At least the room will be warm when he comes back to get under the covers again, after feeding his adorable little hell-beast.

But as Will cranks open a can of wet food and slops it into Rocky’s bowl, Mike appears and starts shuffling around with a blanket draped over his shoulders, opening curtains. Outside, frost glitters darkly on the western-facing rooftops of the apartment complex, where the morning sun hasn’t reached yet.

“You pick up a shift today?” Will says, trying to remember what day it is. Mike isn’t usually up this early on his off days.

Mike hums a negative and glomps onto Will, wrapping him in the blanket too, as Will starts the coffee.

Oh. Sunday. That’s right, because last night was D&D night with the Party. Will works today, but it’s a short shift; they aren’t open very long on Sundays. And anyway, he actually enjoys working on days like this, when it’s cold and damp outside, warm and cozy inside. And on Sundays he works with his favorite coworker: Robin, whose sense of humor is as offbeat and vaguely dark as Will’s, but in completely different ways. They always manage to have fun together, even on horrible work days. Lately she’s been learning Russian from an app on her phone, and her new favorite bit is to loudly yell random Russian words at Will as he passes.

_ Oвощи! _

_ Серебряный! _

As Mike opens a cupboard and seems to debate between toast and oatmeal, Will gets his phone and scans through the news feed. Mike looks over his shoulder.

It’s been months, and they still haven’t shaken the paranoia.

Nancy’s article caused such a stir that it nearly single handedly jump started the domino process to make Matches illegal. The dominoes are still in the process of falling, and Ted Wheeler is campaigning furiously against it. There’s a lot of red tape to get through, and a lot of tight-fisted business owners and shareholders to battle, before the deed can be done - but it’s happening. The momentum has long since caught on, and by now it’s just a matter of time before the decision can filter through the courts. 

Mike and Will’s disappearance caused a fair amount of stir as well. Mike mitigated it as best he could by using Nancy’s connections to put out one final statement - essentially,  _ No, I’m not dead. Yes, I left to protect myself. My spouse and I have taken new first and last names and have settled down in Florida to comfortably retire on our hoarded millions. _

Lies, of course, to throw the press and the public off their scent. They kept their first names, the hoarded millions are more like hoarded ones, and they’re not in Florida.

When they landed in Portland, one stifling August morning at about 6:30am PDT, the first thing they did was use part of their emergency cash to buy new phones from the outrageously overpriced electronics hut inside the airport. They needed to be able to get in touch with each other if they got separated, and plus, they needed Net access. From their new phones, they used a couch-surfing program to get boarding, and then a ride to said boarding.

Will’s first clear memory of Oregon is sitting in the back of a mostly-empty airport shuttle, surrounded by cumbersome luggage and holding a loud and cat-vomit-scented cat carrier on his lap, feeling vaguely airsick and jet lagged himself and staring blearily out the windows. He and Mike were both holding paper coffee cups from Peet’s Coffee and Tea, and as the shuttle trundled along out of the airport complex to where their ride could pick them up, Will watched the sun come up behind the trees and buildings of unfamiliar shapes.

They spent their first month in temporary stays, burning through a huge chunk of their savings to stay three days here and a week and a half there in various host’s spare rooms while they looked for starter jobs. Temp jobs, to get them by for a few weeks. A night or a week at a time unloading trucks or cleaning model homes - a harsh introduction to the paycheck-to-paycheck life, for Mike in particular, who had never had to earn his meals through hard manual labor before. And then, once they had proof of employment, they apartment hunted. 

They took care of some legal work the very first week they arrived, including making a lot of long, frustrating phone calls to take them off Mike’s parents’ insurance, quickly, before anyone realized what they were doing and tried to stop them. But their first priority was, submitting paperwork to change their names. Severing themselves from the name  _ Wheeler _ effectively made Ted’s threats a moot point. Ted could dig up all the slander he wanted on Michael Wheeler, but who cares? Mike’s shiny-new ID card says Michael Byers. His new job at a secondhand computer shop near their apartment hired Michael Byers, not Michael Wheeler. The coffee shop down the street hired William Byers, and Will sells his art under the same name. Mike is working on a new novel, which he intends to publish under the name M.B. Byers. 

It was Joyce’s maiden name, taken with her permission.  _ Hopper _ would have been too obvious - the Wheelers know the Hoppers. Ted will be googling  _ Michael Hopper _ every other week to see what pops up. But nobody has ever heard the name Byers, least of all Ted or Karen, and Joyce and the others helped them so much that they wanted to honor her in a way.

They didn’t stay in Portland. They couldn’t. Too expensive. And, because it’s too big of a city, too easy to be recognized. So they moved to a slightly smaller city a few miles west. More of a town, really. It’s not large. The change from Indianapolis is... significant. 

“Small town vibes,” Mike said when they moved in, and Will laughed, because he doesn’t think this qualifies as a small town. But he supposes, for a big city kid, it kind of is. Their apartment complex is just off of a street that’s  _ actually _ called Main Street - and “Main Street” is four lanes across. Five, with a turn lane. Instead of tall buildings, there are tall trees everywhere. Douglas Firs, mostly, and Grand Firs, and Bigleaf Maples, as the Visitor Brochures informed them.

They’ve been slowly collecting furniture and possessions. The savings in Will’s account didn’t take them as far as they expected, and they were really starting to get worried, at the end of that first month, that they’d run out of money for boarding before they found an apartment. But they managed it. The temp jobs helped, and then they got real jobs and that  _ really _ helped. But then all their earnings were absorbed by rent and insurance and groceries, plus small unexpected costs and essentials like the decor, cleaning products, dishware, bedding, a shower curtain and a coffee machine, a cheap new tablet to use the Net and watch movies on. Not to mention that Will had to go to the dentist for the first time ever to fill a cavity - an experience he despised - and the copay knocked them flat on their asses. 

So there wasn’t much left over to furnish their living space. For the first two months living in their apartment, they slept on a futon they had gotten for cheap. During the day, the futon was their couch. They had a fridge and a stove that came with the kitchenette, but no microwave. They rescued free dying plants from a local gardening store and tried to nurse them back to health, with varying degrees of success, and placed the surviving plants in windows. They ordered a lot of low-quality stuff cheap from the Net - scratchy, thin window curtains, flimsy colorful plastic bins to organize the kitchen. They ate a lot of spaghetti because it was something they knew how to cook, and plus, tomato sauce and noodles are cheap. Lots of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cheese quesadillas. Will endeavored to fill every inch of wall with art during those first few months, determined to make their home cheerful and comfortable. 

The Rocketeer, for her part, didn’t seem to mind - or even notice - the change. After the initial harrowing journey by plane, she settled quickly into her life as a kitten couch surfer, making their lives infinitely more difficult because of how few hosts accepted pets. They thought they were going to get kicked out of their very first stay, because she upchucked directly on the host’s white couch - but thankfully the host was an understanding old man who waved them away cheerfully, claiming that it wasn’t Rocky’s fault, she was just airsick. He then proceeded to sing a lullaby to the moping kitten in Mandarin and gave her a fuzzy blanket to sleep on. By the time they arrived at the new apartment she was a pro at new places, and took a cursory sniff around before bounding off to chase a spider. (Because, oh, yeah, there are spiders in the apartment.  _ So many freaking spiders. _ ) 

_ Her  _ diet hasn’t changed at all. She still gets gourmet kitty food. Obviously.

The apartment is on the second floor of a three-story complex. The apartment complex boasts a pool (which is almost never open), a hot tub (which is almost always full of elderly residents), a rec center (which Mike says he’ll use someday), a community business center (which neither of them ever use), covered parking (which they don’t need), a maintenance crew (who they’ve never seen), a playground (which they’ve used an embarrassing amount of times), and lots of residents who don’t pick up after their dogs. On the plus side, their apartment has a bathtub (which Mike didn’t think was a big bonus, but apparently it is), a narrow kitchenette, a bedroom and a living room, and a small patio where they hung up a hammock. The walls are stark white, the carpets are a nice stain-able cream, and the spiders are everywhere. And when the season started to change, it got cold. It’s constantly cold. So much so that in about mid-October, they purchased a space heater, which they took to dragging around with them from room to room, changing in front of it when they got into pajamas and pointing it directly at the futon before they  _ get canoodlin’. _ ( _ Get canoodlin’ _ is a phrase that Mike has recently started beating to death, for no obvious reason other than Will hates it and Mike likes to tease.) 

After the first week of little furniture and empty walls, they decided they couldn’t stand it any longer, and they broke down and went to the dollar store. What does the dollar store have? Bed sheets, Christmas lights, elementary school art supplies, fuzzy blankets with cartoon characters printed on them, seasonal decorations, wire baskets, paper lanterns, jars, bags of marbles, ceramic mushrooms for some reason, a welcome mat with cat paw prints on it, woven kitchen rugs, garden flags, fake flowers, and picture frames. So what did they decorate with? Bed sheets, decorated with permanent marker sketches by Will, masquerading as tapestries. Lots of Christmas lights. So. Many. Christmas. Lights. Fuzzy blankets on the futon. Fake autumn leaves hung up in bunches. Paper lanterns strung along the ceiling from kitchen to living room. Jars filled with marbles and fake flowers. Ceramic mushrooms in the kitchen windowsill. And Will’s art, sometimes just marker doodles, framed and hung up in clumps and patterns.

It’s a simple, cozy space. They miss their old projector - Mike says they should get another one as soon as they can, so they can watch movies on something bigger than a tablet again. But the door locks with a deadbolt, and there’s a bathtub for bubble baths - not a big, fancy one like in their old beige-tiled bathroom, but a bathtub nonetheless - and tree branches outside the window. They have fuzzy blankets and a space heater and each other to keep warm on frosty autumn nights, and a coffee machine to brew hot drinks, and they have a few books. An increasing number of books, as it happens - there’s a secondhand bookstore in town that they frequent. They have a friendly and energetic cat, who they love even though she sometimes brings live spiders to them as gifts and drops the vile things directly on their toes. At a certain time in the evenings, the sun slants quietly through their windows, lighting up the white walls a gold-orange. And the futon isn’t very good for their backs, but it’s actually not bad for canoodlin’. 

They fight. A lot. The life change was jarring and stressful for both of them, and there were times after the move when they almost wondered if their relationship would survive it - but it did. They still fight a lot, and gradually, they’re learning  _ how _ to fight. Or more accurately, how to fight fair. How to  _ resolve _ fights.

Part of it stems from Mike having a little bit of adjustment trouble. He’s been a rich kid since birth. He’s not used to being strapped for cash, and he’s burned them down to the wire more than once with a thoughtless purchase, and then stomped around in a fit of self-blaming and self-pitying anger until he ran out of steam. He’s not used to having to think about every purchase, or measure out his coffee money over the week, or take the bus instead of hiring a ride, or make sacrifices. Pizza tonight  _ or _ that new movie. One or the other, not both. This is why, after a few weeks, the credit card moved house from Mike’s wallet to Will’s, and stayed there. But he’s adjusting. And once, after a particularly hard week, when Will was worried that Mike regretted all of this, Mike reassured Will that he’s happier now than he has been in years. No political games, no being moved around here and there for his parents’ benefit. And really, despite the big adjustment, he doesn’t think he’s going to miss the riches a bit. 

And now here they are. They go about their lives. 

Will changed his haircut; leaving behind the old style makes him feel better about looking in the mirror. It reminds him less of Perfect Match when he sees himself, now. Mike, on the other hand, let his hair grow out. His mother was always hounding him about getting it cut, keeping it neat, keeping it “professional,” so Mike seems to take a particular joy in letting it go wild now.

Mike reconnects with his Party online, under a different username. Apparently they were all convinced he was actually dead, and yelled at him for approximately two hours straight for scaring them so much by disappearing. He swore them all to secrecy. They continue playing D&D on Saturday nights, and Will has begun to join them, making his own character: a cleric. They all promise to come visit when they can, now that, as Max puts it, “You no longer live in hell.” 

Will goes running every few mornings, finding his favorite path around their damp green neighborhood. Mike got himself a bike, since he said he was tired of walking and taking the bus everywhere. Then Will wanted in on the fun, so they got one for him, too. They take bike rides together, sometimes, like they’re teenagers with nothing better to do. There’s a nearby park called Paladin Estates, full of impossibly tall trees, that Mike jokes is “his park,” because of his paladin character in D&D. The dollar store quickly became their best friend - their go-to place for holiday decorations and cheap necessities. Dish soap, deodorant. Mike started looking up new recipes on the Net recently and trying them out, only setting off the fire alarm four times so far. 

Will made a friend at work - Robin, the whip-smart, sharp-witted lesbian with highlights in her hair and a lot of necklaces and bracelets. Mike is frenemies with a coworker at the computer shop - some douchebag named Steve who has apparently adopted Mike as a pupil against his will, and who, allegedly, regularly chews Mike out for “acting like a jackass rich kid,” and has been showing him the ropes around town. 

Lately, they’ve been marathoning a new show they like - some small-town drama with science fiction elements set in the 80s. Mike found a secondhand guitar and has started trying to teach himself to play with online tutorials since they can’t quite afford a guitar teacher yet. 

Friday night is date night. Whether it’s a night in, playing strip-Scrabble, making a blanket fort, painting with Bob Ross (Mike complains that Will has an advantage, so Will blindfolds himself, to hilarious results), or a Nerf Gun battle with high stakes; or a night out, at the local dollar theater, getting drinks during Happy Hour at the bar, mini golf, window shopping downtown, Used Bookstore Bingo, or to the kooky local museum that always has bizarrely niche displays. They’re saving up to take a vacation - a road trip, specifically, since Will loves them so much. They’re planning on borrowing Steve’s car, which he offered in exchange for “one whole workweek of Mike not complaining.” Will has been looking into online schools and local colleges where he might start school, when they can afford it. Getting in is a little tricky; with no high school diploma, he has to test for his GED first, but it’s doable. 

Just recently, Will started going to therapy. He’s still not quite sure what he thinks about that. He was nervous about it at first, because most of his problems are direct results of being a Match, so there’s no real way to talk through them without revealing his origins. He was afraid that if a therapist found out he wasn’t a real person (“And that kind of thinking is exactly why you should go,” Mike argued.) that they’d dismiss him. Or they’d even find out who he was, somehow, and they’d tell the entire country and their whole new life here would shatter and Mike’s parents would find them and -

But he agreed to give it a shot, with the provision that he could quit on a dime if he ever wanted to. Finding out that therapists legally can’t tell anyone anything that happens in the sessions helped with his fears of being discovered and dragged back into their old life. And to his relief - and surprise - when he came out of the Match closet, as it were, his therapist didn’t blink an eye.

It’s been helping a lot. Will had some issues that ran deeper than he previously realized. A lot of them were quite literally intentionally programmed into his brain, after all. He’s been saying that Mike should go, too - after all, his parents did a number on him - but it’s expensive, and Mike has a bad habit of brushing off and downplaying his own struggles, probably in an attempt to counteract his ingrained rich kid tendencies. He doesn’t want to be seen as an entitled, spoiled upper-class asshole, complaining about his wealthy upbringing, so he pushes down the things that really bother him. Maybe someday Will can convince him.

* * *

When the Hoppers finally make their own move, after giving it some time for the heat to die down, it’s December. 

They settle in another town near-ish to Portland, about an hour and a half’s drive from Mike and Will’s place, and from the day they arrive, they see each other often. As far as their new friends know, El is Will’s sister and Joyce and Hopper are Mike’s in-laws. Jonathan didn’t end up making the move across the country; he stayed in Indiana with Nancy.

Mike and his husband both take time off work to meet the Hoppers at their new place and help them with their move. They, after all, arrived with far more possessions than Mike and Will did. There’s a whole moving truck full to the brim, and it takes two days of hard, hungry work to even come close to getting everything in the correct room - not to mention unpacking. 

On the third day, the Hoppers drive Mike and Will back to Hillsboro, and they spend the day as tour guides. They want to see the apartment, and then they want to see where Mike and Will work, and they want to see the town and the favorite haunts. El and Hop order coffee from Will’s coffee shop, Joyce buys some mementos from a tourist-y boutique in the “downtown” area of town, and they all go back to the apartment for dinner before the Hoppers make the drive back to their new house.

When the Party comes to visit for the holidays, halfway between Christmas and New Years, they stay at El’s house. Of course, they wanted to see Mike and Will’s new place, too - which isn’t so new anymore - but the Hoppers have an actual house, not just an apartment. It’s a small house, just one story and on the wooded edge of town, but a house nonetheless. Joyce parks her pea-green, egg-shaped car on the long dirt driveway, next to Hop’s new Jeep. He traded it in for his cruiser when he quit the force, moving out of Indianapolis.

That’s where the whole Party celebrates the holidays together. In the one-story house at the edge of the woods, where the Hopper’s new dog, Chester, swipes ham slices from the counter and where Jonathan takes home videos of Joyce setting the table, much to her protest. Dustin tells slightly tall tales of his adventures as a poor grad student in the science division, Lucas has pointless and heated contests with Max, and Will, after getting to know them all remotely for over half a year, fits right in like he was always there.

To Mike, it feels like being a kid again, with Mike and Lucas and Dustin and El all together, plus Will. Just like old times, but better.

Word is, the Wheelers are still looking for them. But they haven’t come anywhere near finding them, and for the first time since they fled his parents’ house, Mike is beginning to relax.

No more being a pawn. No more suit jackets and uncomfortable mandatory handshakes. No more big smiles for photographers. No more putting on appearances for the press, no more falling in line for the sake of looking like a big happy family. No more playing nice with his father, or his father’s political allies, or their allies, or  _ their _ allies. For the first time in a long time, he really is living his own life. Except, it’s better than he had ever imagined a year or two ago, because it’s his own life with Will.

* * *

Will is getting some fresh air on the Hopper’s back porch when the back door opens. El was out here chatting with him a few minutes ago, talking about things that you only  _ really _ understand if you were a Match once. She’s in therapy, too, and they were comparing their experiences with it. But she got cold and went inside to warm up, and now when Will turns, it’s Mike elbowing his way through the door, a glass of eggnog in each hand. He shivers as he exits. It doesn’t snow much in Oregon, as they’ve discovered, but it does rain. And the rain is freezing. Sometimes it freezes overnight and turns to a glaze of ice over the world, or slush in the streets. It’s only dripping right now, making the porch railing damp, but they’re protected under the overhang.

“Here,” Mike says, and Will takes the proffered cup.

“Thanks.”

“We better drink this before Dustin can drink any more. I think he’s a little tipsy.”

Inside, they can vaguely hear Dustin’s voice belting out _Auld Lang Syne_. Will chuckles. 

They lean into each other for warmth as they gaze out at the dripping woods behind the Hopper’s house. The Christmas lights strung along the gutters cast a warm glow on the porch.

They don’t say anything for a while. There’s nothing to say, and they’re comfortable just quietly being with each other. Will basks in the moment, in the muffled voices of his friends and family nearby and in the knowledge that he doesn’t have to go back to work until Saturday because he took today and tomorrow off and they’re closed for the 31st. And even though he had to go in yesterday, before they drove out here, he had the 24th and 25th off for Christmas. It’s been much-needed and much-appreciated holiday.

When Mike does speak, Will is surprised to hear him ask, “Are you happy?”

“Now? Or in general?”

“Both, I guess. In general.”

Will pretends to think. “Nope.”

Mike reaches up absently and pulls Will’s beanie down over his face in retaliation. Will shoves it back up again, grinning.

“Be serious,” Mike says, and Will snorts and headbutts him.

“Of course. Why do you need to ask?”

“I dunno. Just checking, I guess.”

Will swallows the last dregs of eggnog, then looks at his husband. Mike has a holiday scruff; he hasn’t bothered to shave since Christmas Eve.

“Are you?”

“Yeah.” Mike smiles crookedly. “You knew that.”

Will shrugs and echoes back, “Just checking.”

When Joyce slides open the door and calls them inside to play games with everyone - Max has suggested a racing game, and they can hear her inside trying to convince El out of a clue hunt game - Will links his fingers with Mike and they duck into the house after her.


End file.
